The two walk toward the beach,
barefoot.

With his soft
index finger,
Ibrahim starts to draw
a map
of what
used to be
their home.

‘No, Ibrahim, the kitchen
is a little farther to the north.
Oh, don’t step over there,
Dad was sleeping there on the couch.’

Tourist kids run by,
flying kites.
The waves hit
the beach,
shaded with cloud cover.

The mosque on the hilltop
calls for
prayer.

Ibrahim and his brother
still argue about where their kitchen was.
They both sit on the sand. Ibrahim
takes out a lighter, wishes he could make tea in their kitchen
for everyone on the beach.
Ibrahim looks upward to what used to be their kitchen window.
The mint no longer grows.