To My Son Upon his First Visit to Lebanon


He wanted to see our summerhouse
            in the mountains of Baabdat,
enter the pictures
                          where a young woman his age,
            her long hair flowing in the wind,

guided his first steps on the terrace of the villa.
He wanted to dream in a language never learned,
            see himself reflected in familiar faces,
recapture smells and fragrances.

He finally saw the orchard his father planted
            tree after tree, green and black figs, cherries,
peaches, plums, pears, apples and almonds...
                      One hundred fruit trees
            we would not see blossoming
                       spring after spring.

            And the purple grape seeds from Japan,
the miniature green seedless Banati from Egypt,
            covering the trellis, tempting clusters hanging low,
casting shadows on the shaded patio.

The cut stone house with its tiled roof
            seemed out of place.
What ever happened
            to the one in the family album?

No longer surrounded by green mountain slopes,
nor an open view to the horizon.
            Erratic buildings sprouted like mushrooms
during the civil war.
Concrete was biting the flanks of the mountains,
            spreading like a contagious disease.

He rang the doorbell.
The tenants were friendly, inviting him in.
            They said the present owner was very proud
of his orchard, that he himself
            had planted each one of these tall, imposing trees...

He called us excited, said he wanted to buy
the house back. We could spend summers there.
Time regained, he thought,
            eager to relive our dream,
retrieve its lost broken pieces,

I tried to explain what does belonging mean exactly?
And does it really matter?

First published by Pirene’s Fountain
From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)

The Taste of the Earth


Two fawns cross the creek. One of them pauses, linked
to his mirror reflection by the tip of his tongue, parallel
worlds merge on the fault line of a folded image.

A musical phrase sticks to your skin, the wind espouses
ripples, liquid dunes lick the shoreline, give moisture to
wild brush, blown-over seeds and thoughts.

Iridescent hummingbirds hover over purple iris blooms.
The shore is faithful to the stream’s first touch. Like first
love, it nourishes tendrils rising into a green flame,

never forgotten like the taste of the earth. A desert thirsts
for an oasis, a fawn melts into the music of a fable,
a gazelle, new memories map rhizomes twisting,

anchoring us farther with each shoot spreading from our
birthplace to everywhere we’ve lived, to where we live
now, and does it make a difference if the root remembers?


First published by Sukoon Literary Journal From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019