Yasmine, Abbas’s daughter, brings baskets
Of eggplants, bread, skewers of chicken and lamb.
Her eyes are Abbas’s eyes, silky dark hair, tall.
“Should he come home?” she asks.
“This is his home.”
Day after day he has stayed in his bed,
Too weak to rise, calling for people
From some other time. I pour tea
In his dry dune of a mouth,
Hold his limp hand, sit
While he sleeps through the day,
Shadows inch over the floor tiles,
Sea heaves of his breath.