Photo credit: Flickr / Emil Athanasiou
Poetry

Poem

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he would pick the fullest one from his tree

lift

and place me next to him

equal

so i could watch as he unfolded the pomegranate

placing every seed

gently

into rose-water & melted sugar.

 

i would reach

push into the salt-water cushions

wait as they slowly refilled

ignoring his task

making a simple unfolding

into an hours-long conversation.

 

a sea of devotion. principle

were my grandfather’s gifts to me.

 

he

whose pomegranate roots stood long before

Occupation was bre(a)d (& butter)

whose heart direction facing east

still today. especially today

is cause for imprisonment. bullets. bombs.

 

when he left, and i had to unfold the pomegranate myself,

they told me that

once upon a time,

he had been taken for nine months

a political prisoner

who when returned

first took the hand of my grandmother

and then kissed his children,

ate and had his coffee

 

ending his night

with a small broom

to sweep the carpet of pomegranate

rotten

without his salt-water hands.

 

-the conversation we never had

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