Mediterranean Sea Salt 

by Dina El Dessouky

Good witches 
would toss you over their shoulders, 
lay you 
in sacred circles around their gathered kin. 

Unknown cousins, 
burnt by our every exhale, 
we owe you that much. 

In our wounds 
you pool thicker than blood; 
now, even coffee 
tastes more like rust 
than cardamom. 

Now, only the craftiest of 
women can breathe 
life back into you, 
our arms too weak 
to haul you ashore. 

We have confined you to 
kitchen counters, 
harvested you 
to cradle in our lungs 
ancient lakes we lost too soon 
to the Haboob and the Harmattan. 

We have heaped you 
on our plates, 
turned our bodies into reluctant urns, 
ectopic with white ash, 
to remind ourselves 
we too were once 
tiny grains that the 
faulty sediment 
shook loose and percolated. 

But we sweat you 
over breakfast: 

Bless this food, 
a carbon copy 

of our folks 
and footprints. 

Bless this food 
and each hand that gathered it. 

Bless this food. 

Our sweat beads at midday 
under impermeable cobalt tracksuits, 
heeding calls to prayer on-the-run, 
and even after waterfall ablutions 
we sweat you, 
can’t keep you from seeping 
back through our pores. 

We sweat you in fellaheen robes, 
blue-hot rock steam exploding our lungs 
and pulling seared foreheads 
towards the cool balm of earth. 

We sweat you safe on your journey. 

We sweat you home, cousins.