in the village

It is the season of apricots
the sun dries up fruits and jams them into jars, with pips
white and round like the road bellow my head

I have walked this road too many times
I know the distance between the gravel
the swing of the three yellow flags, near the roundabout

there's a mulberry tree, owned by my grandfather's childhood friend
entitling my hands to the fruit, sweet and dark
like wine spots on my t-shirts, the tinge of borrowed pleasures

I have never known my grandfather but I know of the tree
it is a secret you told me, like I told you of the way
 I am used to calling out other the names,  chants into space

this is where I call out to you, practice spelling your name
out of air. You turn your head to the fields
point and say; green is a good sign, this is a good country

we don't originate from this piece of land, nor you
neither I, we have refined the taste of sugar cubes
and enough fair dancing in mirrored rooms

we know when to stop beating the tree for jokes
after sunset, the collection of apricots will stop
while the collection of stories starts with sugar

You laugh at the spots of jam on my shirt
your lack of better judgment shows me off
like a trophy in front of your women

the women are decent, they braid my hair
teach me to make sugar syrup and new ways to tuck my legs close
women skills rough hands cannot teach, despite the finger's soothing effort

when you turn your back to my schooling
of the kitchen habits and the domestic fires
I run after you, and after the fruit basket at my lap

you have watched me sweeten, it is harsh yet
your voice in the distance, pleads like a sheep
bleating, I am a dweller of cities
and this is a villager's hunger.