You were born in the mellah 
 Made your feet leather on hot rocks
 made way for boys with donkeys 
 ever the scrambler
  
 Your mother didn’t know you much
 seventh of twelve, always dashing off. 
 While she did someone else’s washing,
 you and your twin brother switched places on a dare,
 then back again
 “Do you think you can fool me?” Your mother shouted
 You could. 
  
 You miss it all, down to goat shit and garbage
 wrapping tefillin for the first time (though your brother got to first)
  
 Your house was pink as sunrise,
 And though it’s been decades you shudder to think 
 of some other family inhabiting its walls.
  
 You weren’t like Isaac, son of silk-sellers
 Or Hassan, son of a judge
 but you outran them, and your brother
 four times out of five. 
  
 Your accent’s shifted. You’ve forgotten some words.
 They were never your strong suit,
 But you delight your grandkids-- 
 Saba’s climbing! 
  
 even though they now outrun you
 four times out of five.