TAPS ON THE WINDOW TONIGHT

Like rain my father returns from the other side.
At the vacant guest seat,
I set an empty plate, a fork and knife,
and imagine that he won’t stay long.
The dead are not known to hunger for rice and lentils.
As usual, he’ll read from Mahfouz’s Love in the Rain
which he bought long ago in the Old City.
Memories gather on the table like home cooking.
My father’s broad hands grasp mine and my sister’s,
a string of prayer beads, a pipe, books,
with the tenderness reserved
for fragile things.

נקישות בחולון הערב

נקישות בחולון הערב