Ramadan

Ramadan

by Khaled Mattawa

My mother forgets to feed her animals

because it's only fair.

She rushes to them when

she hears hoarse roosters crowing

and billy goats butting

over a last straw.

This month the moon becomes a princess.

The stars fan her,

Jupiter pours cups of wine,

Mars sings melancholy mawals.

Bearded men holding prayer beads

and yellow booklets stare at her

and point aching fingers at her waist.

In our house we break a fast

with dates from Huun

and glasses of buttermilk.

Then on to bowls of lamb soup

flavored with mint, trays

of stuffed grape leaves,

spiced fava beans drenched

in olive oil and lemon juice.

And that is only the beginning.

The spirits of Johnny Walker and gin

hide in the trunks of white Peugeots.

In the nightclubs of my city, waiters

serve only non-alcoholic beer

and belly dancers cover themselves.

Father of sixteen children, our neighbor

visits bringing two kilos of baklava.

He washes them down with a dozen

demitasses of sweet sage tea.

Before dawn he runs to one

of his two wives, both named Salma,

and loves her hurriedly,

his hands barely touching a breast.