When the milk comes down like nightfall,
nostalgia reeks of onions and camphor
in the corner apartment of Baghdad Street.
Come, I will swathe you in Grandmother’s
linens, starched with Arabic soap and lemons.
Your suckling prunes a hollow in my pine,
heartwood and pith, hüzün. Sap seals the scars
on childhood knees; how high we climbed!
One day, we too, will tally meteors from
behind a curtain of honeysuckle and linden.
Hibiscus corolla of your lips, wrap me
in nyctinasty, draw the bittersweet
longing from my pistil, honey and stigma.
Feast, child, on the syrup of my memories,
each molecule of regret hungered for, devoured.