I saw countries embrace my good mornings saying: Be worthy of the bread's aroma, may the flowers of the pavements make you elegant. There is still fire on your mother's hearth, and the welcome is as warm as bread
-Mahmoud Darwish
Am I not worthy of this bread's aroma
That my mother rolled and kneaded into the night
Wiping sacrifice with the back of her right hand
From a determined brow peppered with sweat
The warmth of hearths, the warmth of beating hearts
Lain and slain on stone altars as humble offerings
This snug incubation, of me in a belly distended
Is that of yeasty dough rising in modern hearths
A curious and vigilant eye on transformative processes
Turning ingredients into sustenance, zygote into heartbeat
One hand to the glass of the oven door, and the other
To the conclusive processes of glassed in-vitro
Bearing her own swollen feet and those that kick her walls
The sleepless nights are a vigil to the miracles of gestation
The time has come, the bread rests on the high counter
The time has come, she has given birth to a firstborn
But it takes patience for it to become an unfearing daughter
Standing on her own two feet in the living room and the world
This daily bread, ready to be partaken in, is generously served
By my mother's hard work who nods to me beyond the veil
I break the bread, let the aroma that I am worth, fill my chest
Before putting the pieces to my lips, a kiss that fortifies
Dear Daughter, she says to me in the unswallowable silences
There will always be bread of my hands to eat and be filled with
For God gave us the light by which I bake, and you break this bread
Whose nostalgic aroma, of which you are worthy, fills a future
