“A true Arab knows how to catch a fly in his hands,”
my father would say. And he’d prove it,
cupping the buzzer instantly
while the host with the swatter stared.
In the spring our palms peeled like snakes.
True Arabs believed watermelon could heal fifty ways.
I changed these to fit the occasion.
Years before, a girl knocked,
wanted to see the Arab.
I said we didn’t have one.
After that, my father told me who he was,
“Shihab”—“shooting star”—
a good name, borrowed from the sky.
Once I said, “When we die, we give it back?”
He said that’s what a true Arab would say.
Share this:
Tagged: anime, Arab poem, Arabic poetry, blood poem, contemporary poetry, illustration, inspiration, lyric poem, Naomi Shihab Nye, Naomi Shihab Nye poem, other lands, poem, poetry, red sky, red sky at night, Shihab, Shihab poem, sun, sunset
Coffee and Irony 
Comment