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

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