Little purple fingers
The patio floor covered in half-rotting figs
that smell sweet
Pitting olives on a plastic stool
while your mother lounges on a cot on the floor.
The first spring rain
and you come in with your socks soaked demanding something to eat
The wound on your oldest brother’s leg is healing and I worry that the humidity
will mildew the bandages.
It’s been three weeks.
Ahmed still hasn’t returned.
No one thought they would keep him this long. He is only 9 years old.
The rumble of an engine in the driveway, a twig cracking
Your father with bread and juice.
Rain pools in the trenches of the vineyard
I try to scrub your little purple fingers clean But, like you, they have a mind of their own
Who am I to tell the mulberries where to leave their stain