here i stand on torrid land
my spirit wandering the dusty sand
of fig trees, khubz (bread) and floured hands
i stand just
foot driven deep
in the earth’s crust
sure-footed grip of rocks and mortar
my soul ripped in two
by grief’s torture
small hands grasped lightly
by the remembrance, of her
soft dough-baked grip of salt, of land
ancient yet present her cherub eyes danced
table-side love, she spoon-fed her clan
with grape leaves and olives
and, not so dainty, meat pastries
prepared from the vines, toiled by cede’s hand
his backyard bounty, his dreams — their dreams
of their homeland and my dreams of
hot cement days and barefooted children
pretending the dawali, the stuffed grape leaves, are stacks of cigars
stuffed, rolled, stacked high on big plates
the dawali grows higher
creating bigger heaps of make-believe
fun time with cousins
longing for the smells of dusty left behind relics
that bespeak of them, their belongings
the hookah, the 8 track tapes, belting out loud Arabic music
the robe and headscarf my grandfather wore, not so long ago
in Ramallah, the curious one that later became a halloween costume
worn by my childhood friend
and that old oriental rug beaten by history
splayed across the living-room floor, adding an air of the exotic
to their mundane-colonial-suburban sofa
the lamb and garlic stained air, smelt early at daybreak
seemed always there, lingering about
oiled-hot-pots, full, brimming with tomato broth baths
and grown ups lamenting the evening news, the war, the fight
for the return of their land, usurped by foreign man
those that had suffered atrocities of their own
have turned ugly, heaping nails, spitting bulldozers
claiming god has promised this to them
easily they slipped between tongues
english and Arabic at once
they were here/there simultaneously
they had created a new language, one easily understood by us
and me, absorbing all this with my round brown eyes
unaware of my future task
silently inhaling the smoke of my
family’s lingering rage, the kind of rage
that clings to the walls, to the curtains, to the furniture, to me
to my stuffed pink panther
the one i loved so much for its unique shape and color
the color of bubble gum and pink lemonade — but the rage!
the rage had to be scrubbed off the walls, scrubbed off the furniture
scrubbed off my clothes, scrubbed, scrubbed, scrubbed!
and i
inherited this task unknowingly.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
Photo by FAICAL Zaramod from Pexels
The Artist From The Inside Out 