I

There is a big fig tree in the front yard

and your bike always ends up bigger than you think

But everything is sunshine

But you never had a bike

or any shoes.

II

You were rolling down

on a hill near your house

before your dad caught you and threw you in a cactus tree

Your mother handed you her lap

you smile

III

You run away from home

You take a book and a handful of olives and think the world is yours

it starts raining

And you remember you didn’t learn how to read

IV

Tanks and soldiers are no strangers to you Your aunt hands you

a stone

V

Dates for lipstick

Vine leaves for earrings

You braid your fear with fine stitches

And keep it

Closely tucked in a neat ventricle

of your heart

VI

You move to a new house

You’re on your own

The neighborhood slowly becomes your kingdom.

VII

Two nights in a cave with a newborn. Three tomatoes and some bread. Gauze for war masks.

VIII

Your mother goes to the white sounding building. She leaves silent. She dies. You know loss and

grief closely.

IX

You can’t swim so you don’t crave the sea. You learn how to read.

 X

You comp the land with the same warmth

for a daughter

And the fig tree becomes too pregnant

As spring and death come closer

You shine in the daily details.