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