In the midst of this thing some call the crisis of migrants,
my students and I were studying food vocabulary.
We had to go far beyond our book,
as it had been written by men who didn’t
mention dates, lakhma, kofta, manta or ka’ak.
So we rewrote that chapter – and practiced by deed.
You cannot imagine the dents in the table
from all the plates and foods and goods
prepared by the hands of littles
who are otherwise busy relocating their childhood right now.
There was prayer in foreign sounds,
there was an astounding devotion and gratitude,
there were recipes and memories
from a world which no longer exists,
because some adults are incapable of dealing with conflict.
That’s what war is – and nothing more.
So there we were, spending a holy time together.
Why holy? Meet these kids.
To them, all food is holy, all life as well,
and they know, because they had already bargained for both.
So in the midst of a so-called migrant crisis,
which legitimizes building border walls
between my toes and someone else’s,
you look awfully lonely over there
compared to us, having breakfast