Needlepoint Gazelles

It's where they sit and hide needle and thread in valleys of red and black polyesterFor nights so long and hot the young occupy the roofsIt's where the fans hum at night while young boys rub their eyes, playing with kings and queensIt's where mothers come to examine braided hair and auburn eyes to report to waiting sons

It's sage and tea brewed over and over for familiar guestsMornings of zaatar and olive oil so tangy and bitter rivaled by coffee in one-inch cupsLaughter and the picking of tiny rocks from among a tray of lentilsIt's green mellow soup with chicken and large fingers dipping bread dreaming small dreamsof first-born sons and zaffas so loud the neighbors come to hold hands and stomp feet

Where girls clap and twist with unbound hair and kohl dripping from their lashesWhere babies cry in the background while being carried in arms wrapped in rattling treasuresWhere lava covered cheese drenched in sugary syrup enters lips freshly painted with sticksof fuscia and red bought for 25 cents from street uncles

This is where mothers shriek with rolling tongues from open windows and sing of the valleyThis is where fathers sway walking sticks to melodiesThis is where the young dream of large trays of almond lamb served by gazelles who sway in long thoubs