Where I am From
I am from tattered towels,
from bleach powder and slimy brown soaps.
I am from the gaping broken potholes of the floor.
(Red, muddy,
smelling like fresh petrichor.)
I am from the silkworm mulberries,
the common slender jasmine,
whose intoxicating scents filled the arid air,
and beautiful vines climbed the narrow wooden poles.
I’m from recitations and charity.
From Abdel and Nadzma.
I’m from the guidance and knowledge,
and the innocence and earnestness.
From “always be honest”
and “cut your dress according to your cloth.”
I’m from The Most Gracious and The Most Merciful,
from the morning call of the prayer and divine evenings.
I’m from the Garden and the Traders,
flavored rice and sweet almond milk.
From the childhood that my mother lost,
the dreams that my father did not give up on.
In a plastic cover on the iron rack,
there are musty old photos,
honoring the traditions,
with happy but torn and worn faces.
I am from these leaves covered by mold,
which remind me of my unique legacy.
©A.H. Mehr
