We were boiling bananas on the roof of our house.
My mother’s laughter clutched the heart of my ears.
She was gossiping with her neighbor, knocking softly on my body with her delicious words.
Although, my mother doesn’t know how to write, her telling is as sweet as poetry.
I love to watch their tongues playing music that called a conversation.
My mother and her neighbor were working on their knees; their chests pump gladly, their noses colored by the smoke.
For us boiling bananas equals praying
We murmurs with verses, we sing with faces up
We live in our own paradise, making art through peeling bananas, slicing it into pieces of heaven, boiling it on the fire, hoping for a kiss on a cheek from a bird, or an old hymn bathe the exhausted soul.
I was sitting on my mother’s hip, my special view that overlooking the cavern of God
There, where i could spy on the kingdom of mercy
I saw god cooking for children like me
Just like me and the only difference is that
They are dead, but i am still alive
Every time we boiling bananas, i watched god preparing the dinner table for the dead children
He was feeding them sweetly
I felt the warmth of their soup, i touched the magic of their setting
Every time I ran to my mother, crying in childish tone saying that i saw god cooking for dead children.
My mother smiles and completes her talking with her neighbor
I yelled at my mother, but she smiled again.
Then, i kept watching and spying
God was making delicious food upstairs, one hundred children on their knees look forward tasting the yummy dishes.
I was waving to them, smiling at them, but they didn’t notice me at all.
They were gathered around the God, in longing, in awe,
I have always wondered if god boiling bananas for the children like our mothers do for us.
And i imagined many times how delicious is it.
The smell of our rooftop carries kind of hope.
Under my little bare feet, bananas peel and two bowls, one for us and the other one for the hungers people in our neighborhood.
It became a habit since we all heard of
One hundred child died of hunger, one hundred innocent soul vanished, disappeared, all the my folk said that, but i swear to them, i swear to my mother that i saw god cooking for the dead children , but they said nothing, just kept smiling at me.
image: Egon Schiele, ‘Houses with Laundry’ aka ‘Two Blocks of Houses with Washing Lines’ (1914)
I am a freelance writer based in Egypt. My poems and fiction have appeared in several prints and online publications including south Florida poetry, Birmingham arts journal, Hawaii review, the meniscus, the Chiron review, the hunger, writers resist, right now and several publications. My poetry collection “for those who don’t know chocolate” that published in February 2019 by poetic justice books& arts. My poem ” for those who don’t know chocolate” turns into poetry short film which made shortlist in several international poetry festivals including Hombres video poetry award, Kanivfest Kaniv International Film Festival 2019, VI international film festival golden frame 2019 and Ó Bhéal Poetry-Film
