out of the bones of earth

Bare your feet, roll up your sleeves 

oil the immigrant’s bowl. 

Open the doors and windows of your house 

invite in the neighbors, invite in strangers off the street. 

Roll out the dough, add the spices for a good life, 

cardamom and soul, cumin and tears. 

Stir in sesame and sorrow, a dash of salt

pink as new hope. 

Rub marjoram and thyme, lemon grass and holy basil 

on your fingers and pat the dough. 

Bless the table, bless the bread, 

bless your hands and feet, 

bless the neighbors and strangers off the street. 

Bake the bread for a century or more 

on a moderate heat 

under the olive trees in your backyard 

or on the sun-filled stones of Syria, 

in the white rocks of Beirut 

or behind the walls of Jerusalem. 

In the mountains of Afghanistan 

and in the skyscrapers of New York

feast with all the migrant tongues 

until your mouth understands 

the taste of many different homes 

and your belly is full so you fall asleep 

cradled in the skirts of the world 

curled in the lap of peace.