i.I forget tradition, a tray of sticky dates passed around the kitchen table, bismillahin our mouths before we ravenously break the dusk, chew and spit back the pits. Ma ladlinglumpy lentil soup, abandonment pouched in her long sleeves, an old injury she does notstop pressing. How are we still here? Made of garlic breath, violent affection, arrears.Ma pushes, alhamdullilah for these bounties, we a ... (read more)