On the Christian side of town there is no adhan
We speak like the tiles on a minaret during prayer call
Like the sympathy of strings in my grandmother’s oud
That she put down to bear her children
In Beirut I last saw her alive
She ate nothing and spoke of Byblos in the Sixties
When she saw Fairouz sing in the ruins of the Roman amphitheater
She wants to hear how I live my life in Amreeka & am I mabsoota?
In the pastel light the hours pass over our tongues like sugared almonds