Her headscarf, a lovely shade of rose
hides curls, I think, and a surprising streak of auburn.
I wonder if, in the reddish soil of her home
pomegranates are growing, just now, in her garden.
And if they do and you were there, sitting in the sun,
would you smile
take one that she offered
Or would you stand
doling out bits of manners like crumbs?
His skin, the color of rich ground that grows potatoes
sings lamentations, sings silence
I wonder if, in the summer of his home
his children are laughing
twirling in soft grass
And if they are, and you were there,
would you watch stars
listen to old stories
let them make you wise, good?
Or would you, even in that place of air
keep your foot on his neck
and hold him