Breakfast On Friday The 11th of April 1986
Rich aroma finds its way
From the bottom of the pan,
To my nostril.
Garden tomatoes frying
In golden pools of ghee,
Lemon juice and garlic.
Once bronzed, Baba adds
green chilli peppers.
In the next pan, thick potato chips
Are sizzling. Beans and humous
Glisten in olive oil; carefully adorned
With cumin fresh parsley, and sumac.
The kitchen table summons us:
My sister‑in‑law is expecting.
In honour of the first grand‑child, Mama and
I visit the hairdresser. We return frolicking
Like two school children skipping a class.
My brother embraces Mama and
Tells her that her mother has died. She bellows
To the floor. He quickly orients her to his embrace
And rocks her back from oblivion. My beautifully
Coiffured hair limps to stale.
(c) Sahar Huneidi 1997
Read other poems by Sahar: If You Were A Vase , I.D. (or I don't!) , Virtual Reality