THE CONVERSATION WE NEVER HAD ❋ Maha Zimmo

he would pick the fullest one from his tree.
lift
and place me
next to him
equal
so i could watch as he unfolded the pomegranate
placing every seed
gently
into rose-water & melted sugar.

i would reach
push into the salt-water cushions
wait as they slowly refilled
ignoring his task
making a simple unfolding
into an hours-long conversation.

a sea of devotion. principle
were my grandfather’s gifts to me.

he
whose pomegranate roots stood long before
Occupation was bre(a)d (& butter)
whose heart direction facing east
still today. especially today
is cause for imprisonment. bullets. bombs.

when he left, and i had to unfold the pomegranate myself,
they told me that
once upon a time,
he had been taken for nine months
a political prisoner
who when returned
first took the hand of my grandmother
and then kissed his children,
ate and had his coffee

ending his night
with a small broom
to sweep the carpet of pomegranate
rotten
without his salt-water hands