IT’S TOO COMPLICATED, THEY SAY

II. The Mouth is an Open Grave

You—who called me militant over a glass of wine,
You—who said I was too loud, too political,
who said that academic associations should remain impartial,
as if to study anthropology is not to see its ghosts assembling.

You—who snarled at me after a boycott motion,

who spat my name like a bullet,

said you were sick of my pro-Palestine ‘shit’,
as if grief should wear clean clothes,
as if rage should come whispering
apologies at your door,
as if I could soften my sorrow
to spare you discomfort—
you, who mistake silence for peace,
politeness for justice.

You—who told her to shut up,
shut up, shut up,
while the bodies were still warm,
while the smoke still gathered in their throats.

What does it mean to shut up
when the silence is already swallowing a nation?