Little purple fingers
Mulberry tree
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