Ahmad Al-Khatat is an Iraqi Canadian published poet and writer. In addition to his Pushcart Price 2020 nomination, he received a nomination for Best of the Net 2019. His poetry has been translated into other languages and his work has been published in print and online magazines abroad. He resides in Montreal, Canada, now with his spouse. 

Graduation Party 

Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad 


were three of my most powerful pals. 


They each had a flower in the vase & 


our enemy destroyed all the vases and  


stole all their flowers. 


 



I recall their parents having inscribed. 


their names on their two arms and legs. 


Just to be able to track them down after 


_graduation party. We often forget about 


our assignments because of armed troops. 


 



"Evacuate, damn it!" they yelled at our door. 


Ignoring the agony of an empty stomach, 


Ignoring the stillness, Ignoring the absence 


of our grandfathers, who taught us to live 


& die for the soil and air of free Palestine. 


 



We buried our hopes behind the fig & olive. 


trees because we wanted to live, to love, 


and to be free of the vocabulary of callous 


conflicts that neglected mankind. 


Nonetheless, we are still magnificent bare trees. 


 


Together in the moonless night, 


we prayed then slept in peace until the graduation. 


party began to draw closer and closer with 


daggers in our hearts, bullets screeching towards 


our chests, missiles bursting at the conclusion of  


the graduation party. 


 



We were picked up by one of our parents. 


many hours later. Whether you believe it or not! 


We're all in the same bloody coffin. We wonder. 


whether when the people of the globe cease turning 


our reality the other way, they want to deafen both ears_ 


_and blind both eyes. 

Gates of Grief Warmth 

At thirty-four years old, I'm still experiencing psychic illness. 


Why are my grief warmth gates sealed, I wonder? 


Who made me miserable because I missed you, brother? 


I weep thirsty, but the clouds and the rain do not seem to be satisfied. 


 



From my depressed expression, the candle learns to cry. 


Your perfume teaches my depressed face to read poetry.   


Your fragrance learns to fade without getting in my way. 


My habits of smoking and consuming alcohol have caused 


damage to my throat. 


 



Using brutal chains of no mercy, accept me for who I am. 


I don't have the right to wish for dreams like the previous  


children that passed away. They passed away without leaving a  


name, having learned the meaning of both love and war. 


As though angels of God. 

Untold Habits

During the present genocide, 


we learn of untold habits. 


My father comes home sad with 


an empty grocery bag, 


which is more than a routine. 


 



My mother often tells us to  


wash our hands & occasionally our bodies. 


She pretends to prepare, 


places our empty & shattered dishes, 


& then sobs alongside my father. 


 



Then we all say bismillah 


before we eat & Alhamdulillah's after 


we’ve finished licking our empty fingers. 


We then listen to my parents' prayers as  


we elevate to the skies.