to swallow up and eat. to chew most loudly, enough for your fragile little stomach to devour again, to bring your hand up and eat. with three fingers, no more. and sit on the floor, with one knee up to your stomach and the other leg tucked behind your hip. to eat, and to be satisfied. I eat from my side, you eat from yours. I’ll ask you if you’d want more, even though there isn’t any more food to share. there is a loaf of bread, I break a piece off and give it to you, the goat meat is bony, but the pieces of meat I find I lay on top of the mountain of rice you built for yourself to eat. you give me a bit of spice, the green bisbaas my mom blends from a jalapeño, a small bit, just how I like, with the spoon. I take the banana, but I split it in two. you take the darkened, blackened, browned side. it’s sweeter, you tell me, as I look on at you in distaste. we begin again. you pour a tall glass of water for yourself, and you know it is to share. you drink and I drink from the same spot that your mouth touched. you’re my favorite, and the food tastes sweeter when I share it with you. try this French fry, my mom dyed it with orange food coloring, it is soft but better than the crunchy ones, and when we’re done, we drink tea, with cardamom and black seeds, honey and milk.
 | A guest post by
|