Olive Branch

My uncle, Pakistani, boils spices

in a stainless steel pot on the stove. He

offers me a mug. It is 8 o’clock in the evening.

Soft ginger, cloves, anise. I ladle gold, too earthy

to be nostalgic. For a second, wealthy.

I snack on apple slices slumped over the counter.

I think of my father, Kuwaiti, who used to do the same. Broad

shoulders hunched over the kitchen sink. Crumbs down his sleeves.

Sage in a silver kettle on the stove. Nostalgic. Wealthy.

I burn my tongue on turmeric. I realize: how far I have fallen from the tree

which birthed me. I take another apple slice.

I excuse myself to bed.

About the Author

Ven Mubarak is a senior Creative Writing major and a Theater Arts minor. They are forever yearning for something out of reach and bide their time writing poetry, fiction, and musings.