My grandmother has known war as a staple
in the pantry you never run out of,
like jasmine rice or green lentils,
or the thick viscous olive oil she harvests
which doubles as ointment for deep wounds.
She kept the blood at bay on her gashed ankle
by slathering the slimy blessing, placed a torn
piece of pita, wrapped it all in thin gauze.
Don’t ask me what the properties are and how
she knew. All I know is that it worked.
All I know is that when war is a staple in
your pantry, you learn what to do with it,
how to preserve it, how to turn it into
something necessary, into something useful.
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POETRY: Issue 35