Poems

Red Kubbeh

So much depends upon
A pot 
Of my grandmother Naima’s
Red kubbeh soup. 
 
Put the pot on the fire and pour in the water
To bring close to your grandchildren the rivers of Babylon,
A comfort in Jerusalem in exile. 
Dar-il-Yahud disappeared a long time ago. 
Your hands are also gone. The hands of my mother
Slice crescents of beetroot, polish
A diamond of semolina from the grains of wheat, 
To me they pass the secrets of duration. 
 
Note:
Dar-il-Yahud (Arabic: "The Jews' court"): One of the two Jewish neighbourhoods in Baghdad.

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