^{This spice mix is featured in many of the dishes in this book, lending them a uniquely Palestinian flavor.
 —Reem Kassis, “The Palestinian Table”}

First they tango on my tongue,
nimble couples careening,
then together
form an Arab-style line dance
stepping, stomping, swaying.

West Indies allspice dazzles,
berries tangling with cinnamon sticks,
while cloves, Indonesian natives,
lead with a spirited solidarity solo.

Coriander seeds offer greetings in Hindi
as others toast comrades in languages
beyond borders and blockades.

Lifting up sisterhood, sun-wizened nutmeg
starts a sibling dance with mace.
Cumin demurs, then surprises
with subtle exultation.

Queen of spices cardamom,
host of the party, gives a nod to flavors
in hiding: lemony, sweet, warm, 
fragrant, nutty, pungent, hot.

Encouraged, feisty black peppercorns
shimmy center stage, organizing
the unique union of nine
for a vivacious global salute.

1. Another Family

My grandfather liked to hang around Moishe Cheshinsky’s bookstore on Lawrence Avenue. We were usually the only ones in the stacks. The back room was dusty. Most of the books were written in languages I couldn’t understand. I wondered, “Why do you like it here so much?” My grandfather gestured toward the shelves, “This is my other family.”

2. The Masses

My grandfather believed we were People of the Book. His friend Meyer believed in the Book of the People. Meyer was a mensch who wanted to improve the world, Grandpa explained, but he was going about it all wrong. That’s because he was still a Communist. He had missed the news bulletin about Stalin. Meyer said, “The masses are no asses.” My grandfather shook his head. “Are you certain about that?”

3. Genesis 1 and 2

The old men seemed ancient to me—they were in their early sixties—and should have had beards. They didn’t like the organized part of religion, but they loved the Hebrew Bible. My grandpa’s cronies debated everything. They had no interest in sports—this was their favorite pastime. One day they argued about the origin of the world. Everyone had a theory about why Yahweh created mankind twice. There was a newcomer in the corner. “So what?” he said finally. “The second time was no better than the first.”

4. Ashkenazim

The old men spoke with accents. They had fled pogroms, or ten years of military service, or bad marriages. They checked Other on government forms because they did not consider themselves White. That was for gentiles. “Use your keppie,” my grandfather said, which meant my noggin. “We’re not white. We’re Jewish.”

5. Oy

My grandfather resorted to Yiddish when he was frustrated. He said oy Gutt (oh my God) or oy gevalt (good grief). But I got confused and mixed up God and grief.

^{Zion says, “The LORD has forsaken me, my Lord has forgotten me.” Can a 
woman forget her baby, or disown the child of her womb? Though she might 
forget, I never could forget you.—Isaiah 49:14–15} 

^{“What It’s Like to Lose Your Entire Memory.”—Cosmopolitan}

You don’t remember anything.
How I formed you in your mother’s womb;
nursed you; bathed you; taught you to talk;

led you to springs of water?
I sang your name before you were born.
I’m singing your name now.

You’re clueless as an infant.
When I tell you to shout for joy,
you hear a bicycle, or a cat.

Sometimes, memories of me come back
like children you forgot you had:
a garden; a bride; an image of  your mother,

a best friend, a brother, or a cop, or snow, or afternoon.
Whose are these? you wonder.
Then you forget, and feel forgotten,

like an infant who falls asleep
at the breast
and wakes up hungry again.

Your mother might forget you, child,
but I never forget.
Your name is engraved

on the palms of my hands.
I shower you with examples of my love—
bees and birds, librarians and life skills,

emotions, sunlight, compassion.
Nothing connects.
Every dawn, every generation,

I have to teach you again:
this is water; this is darkness;
this is a body

fitting your description;
that’s a crush;
this is an allergic reaction.

This is your anger.
This is mine.
This is me

reminding you to eat.
Turn off the stove.
Take your medication.

This is the realization
that I am yours and you are mine. This is you
forgetting.

I text my yoga teacher: I think I need
to start medication. I meant

meditation, but the subconscious
knows best. I once wrote a whole poem

about the angel of penetration
rather than admit in my haste

I meant angle of penetration.
Either way, a virgin ascends.

I return a can of paint to the store
because I can’t manage any more

pain, I meant paint. I mean pain.
I keep going back for pain samples

I don’t need. I have gallons of different
shades stored in the basement. Enough

for a fresh coat every year. I don’t take
the medication. There’s nothing worse

than a dull coat of pain. I prefer it
bright and sharp.

^{—after Lucille Clifton}

on the platform i pray
i don’t have to wait too long
for the next train—my girth
too loud, disruptive
for this crowd,
in the elevator i make myself
small, recall Nani’s final days
how my aunt
dressed her after a shower
that memory her skin on bones
follows me everywhere
how she was only slightly there,
but for those family heirloom hips
those dominant gene thighs
i wish i was proud of this pear
that follows me everywhere
of what abundance
adorns this temple
and wrote for it an homage
and not a lament

This afternoon, discomfortable dead
Drift into doorways, lounge, across the bridge, 
Whittling memory at the water’s edge, 
And watch. This is what you inherited. 

Random they are, but hairy, for they chafe
All in their eye, enlarging like a slide;
Spectral as men once met or crucified, 
And kind. Until the sun sets you are safe. 

A prey to your most awkward reflection, 
Loose-limbed before the fire you sit appalled. 
And think that by your error you have called
These to you. Look! the light will soon be gone. 

Excited see from the window the men fade 
In the twilight; reappear two doors down. 
Suppose them well acquainted with the town
Who built it. Do you fumble in the shade? 

The key was lost, remember, yesterday, 
Or stolen—undergraduates perhaps;
But all men are their colleagues, and eclipse
Very like dusk. It is too late to pray. 

There was a time crepuscular was mild, 
The hour for tea, acquaintances, and fall 
Away of all day’s difficulties, all 
Discouragement. Weep, you are not a child. 

The equine hour rears, no further friend, 
Intolerant, foam-lathered, pregnant with 
Mysterious grave watchers in their wrath
Let into tired Troy. You are near the end. 

Midsummer Common loses its last gold, 
And grey is there. The sun slants down behind 
A certain cinema, and the world is blind
But more dangerous. It is growing cold. 

Light all the lights, heap wood upon the fire
To banish shadow. Draw the curtains tight. 
But sightless eyes will lean through and wide night 
Darken this room of yours. As you desire. 

Think on your sins with all intensity. 
The men are on the stair, they will not wait. 
There is a paper-knife to penetrate
Heart & guilt together. Do it quickly.

Dream-singers,
Story-tellers,
Dancers,
Loud laughers in the hands of Fate—
           My People.
Dish-washers,
Elevator-boys,
Ladies’ maids,
Crap-shooters,
Cooks,
Waiters,
Jazzers,
Nurses of babies,
Loaders of ships,
Porters,
Hairdressers,
Comedians in vaudeville
And band-men in circuses—
Dream-singers all,
Story-tellers all.
Dancers—
God! What dancers!
Singers—
God! What singers!
Singers and dancers,
Dancers and laughers.
Laughers?
Yes, laughers….laughers…..laughers—
Loud-mouthed laughers in the hands of Fate.