by samira ibraham
i’m standing in your kitchen
at the turn of the century
sifting
raw
rice and
lemon juice
and thinking
how a hundred years ago,
my grandmother’s mother sat
at an old wooden table with eight sides and
rolled grape leaves with her sisters.
I close my eyes and memory blooms vivid
eight women circling oak
with meat in their fingers,
tongues loosened like braids undone,
absently rolling a mountian of waraq enab**
unfurling secrets and gossip,
admonitions and veiled apologies,
mending their souls,
each other, and a family
as leaves are tenderly manipulated,
and then stuffed full
with the strength
and infinity
that we
their children’s children,
take hungrily into our bellies.
* a braid
** egyptian style stuffed grape leaves
