The morning we broke bread

with the Egyptians, everybody laughed.

The jam was real jam, born

of Fatima’s wide hands, baby berries

born to Allah. The olives had fallen

the autumn before, and Amir’s eggs

tasted of the hereafter. I drank tea

and wanted to pray, but the elders 

showed mercy and intervened,

Elhamdülillah. The sun shone

and the Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him,

was with us. It didn’t matter—

my tattered shoes and clothes,

my hands darker than theirs,

my mispronunciation

of the seventh mosque west of Cairo.

What mattered is I ceased to be

myself, a pawn, an ally to men

more brittle than I, who carried guns.

I was alive then, whispering hadiths

and offering myself to whatever

be necessary. I was alive then,

just like you, and then I wasn’t.