My mother hands me
A bowl of pomegranate seeds
As she hands me a love
So brilliant and bright
As vivid as the crimson juice
Staining my teeth
How many hands, their skin
Weathered by time
They slice fruit
For those they call their life
حياتي
Sometimes, it’s cut with precision
Some days, it’s less structured
One day it’s diced mango
Another day it’s kiwi wedges
It’s a really good day
When you get watermelon cubes with white cheese
The shapes, inconsistent,
The joy, persistent
I am a child again
When my mother hands me
A bowl of pomegranate seeds
