Relationship Goals
When on good terms,
my parents debated the prices
of fruits and vegetables.
Love letters were sent in praise
of my father’s excellent choice of
mint leaves and parsley.
Fights were coded in unsavory criticism
of my mum’s punctured marrows and uneconomical
purchases of hard avocados and sour strawberries.
Reconciliations were held over a festive plate
of khobiza with nestling red chilies and puffy bread
after all, they know their onions.
Ghazal: My Mother
I swear by the light shining from olive oil and the eyes of my mother
I hold no land dearer than the one of my mother
I roam faraway countries and pray to find a home
but I keep coming back to the map given to me by my mother
I wear the perfume of burnt orange rind and read the future in coal
I whisper my prayer, scream at my children; I become my mother
I close my eyes and hide thinking of running away
my daughter asks why the refugee boy is crying “where’s my mother?”
I buy parsley I never use, cancel plans I never wanted to make
I forget recipes and repeat “curse me” as said by my mother
I chase a few poems after everyone goes to bed
pretend there’s more to me than being a mother
but what’s more than being like my mother?