Abu Ibrahim
It has been a long time
since Grandpa Abu Ibrahim passed away.
His fading image haunts me from time to time:
A native of the holy land,
dark-skinned, broad-lined forehead,
hair invaded by age, youth’s black edges
neatly combed backwards,
not very thick, skin like a desert
covered by zig-zag lines of bare sand,
liquid eyes as green as virgin olives
not ripe for picking,
A nose that makes a presence,
not too aloft as to betray the beauty
of the eyes, the mouth,
big and shapeless, liquid and warm,
red and tempting, deep and
merciless.
Once speaking, he reveals a vehement voice,
disguising the meekness of a soul trapped
in the body of a solid Mediterranean man,
telling a story of belonging
as old as Father Abraham.
Thank you for this poetic description and reflection. The word “aloft” is, in my opinion, just right: “not too aloft as to betray the beauty
of the eyes, the mouth,”