Hail pounded
in mortar & pestle,
pale powdered beans
tempered
with the barest heat.
I sip this brew
because dates marry
the taste of cardamom
& life is as simple
as this taste, this place.
Mornings were bitter
cold & the drive to school
was glassed in to keep out
the smell of sewage.
Men near the school gates
in an open air café
drank qahwa & smoked shisha,
exhaling clouds of
smoke white as their thaubs.
Wind off our Red Sea
shoreline stung us
with salt, nights
at the beach house
in winter meant coffee
in fenajeen with ginger
grated in. Zenjibeel
I said, tasting the word,
the spice travelling
through my body.
