By Mina Javaherbin
May 1, 2001
Juicy tomatoes, feta cheese, fresh bread
cucumbers and yogurt,
the parched earth of his rose garden.
Scent of sweat, blood, and lovemaking
locked in earth
since the beginning of time
evaporates from clay to dust,
reminds me, of something,
I can not recall.
Summer sun creeps
behind lazy brick walls.
Fat fish lull in the green pool
and swallow bread crumbs.
Rolled up mattresses on wooden beds
The air is old and familiar.
My eyes turn from grand father to the sky.
The first evening star
explodes its pieces into my eyes.
I wish, I never looked up.