Camouflage

midday sun melts like silk in thin limestone crevices squint between the folds of your kufiyah protect yourself from the sand, military presence hidden in desert hills destruction in the desert a warm breeze brings home the faint smell of gold

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Cardamom

steeped dark like kinks in your morning hair dried, savory spice crack between your teeth bitter only to the inexperienced tongue, English does not yet come easy twenty years later and still cardamom tea unmistakeably tastes like home – a song for Iraq

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