Baba’s Garden

By: Clara Rabbani

Egg-yolks blooming in serenity
baba’s palms turn upwards
black dirt falling on the sun.
The fruit of baba’s hands
covered in spines
twisted but not the wicked way
that punctures skin.
Serpentine limbs extend in search of
hands to hold
fingers to suffocate.
Pungent soil moistens fingertips
incandescent dew settles atop
the hills of my shoulders
rise and fall
cradled against the synapses
between nerve-endings
and an instant.
What baba pours
grows backwards
towards itself.
Which side do I sink my teeth into?
The bitterness is unapologetic.
Watch baba chew
I swallow.
ripe fruit
I peel back with my teeth
burst against the roof of my mouth.
With the seeds
I grow a house
it pours me
upside down.
Eggshell walls and roof of foliage
I step inside.