Murmuring words of mourning,
Sumaya drops onto each open palm
the paste of sugar and simsim oil,
sweetened with raisins and licorice,
made bitter with fried coffee beans
and a scatter of the burst kernels
of burnt corn.
Barefoot, shawled in black
we women sit apart
reciting all the names of Allah,
…the Friend of the bereaved,
the Consoler of the afflicted,
the Compassionate, the Merciful…
We remember our boy,
our Rashid, our brother’s son—
his quick laugh that ran
through our father’s house like the tinkling of goatbells
the small scar on his left thumb
from when his knife slipped
the way he loved sambusas
crisp and steaming from the oil pot
the time he stole Ayisha’s best veil
to make a kite
his pride at memorizing the suras.
And we remember
the first time we lost him:
Rashid was at Omar’s house
when the bad men came.
He did not see them shoot
little Fatima,
did not see the shop burn,
did not see what we saw.
We had to run, leave without him,
wait those empty years in camps
till we crossed the water,
came here to live,
before the letter,
before we knew we knew.
Our Rashid escaped Mogadishu
and the danger-people
only to die in Kenya
of too much sweetness in the blood.
Together now we taste
the sharp sweet simsim paste,
drink thick coffee hot
from small china cups
with fading gold rims—
the flavors of weddings, of births,
of death.
We taste sugar, weep salt.
