b'THE REST OF US STORIESPumpkin SeedsHer nails, long, clacking against the pumpkin seed husk Pick up salt like diamond dustAs she cracks them beneath her jawMolars spiralling, she reminds me of you Displaced on our white sofa, cradling the blue mixing bowlLike an infant; scooping the seeds, overcatch in a bountiful sea Slanted between your teeth, knowing the pressure needed to split them,You crack them out of their cocoon.Meat marinating heavier than rainfall, doum fruits drying drier than dust, peanuts cowering in the cavern of your bagThey do not nurse meLike karkad chasing my throats dryness Like fuul, cumin, sesame, cardammon coffeeDancing on my senses The way that if the earth was flat, it would be your tamiya in the palm of my handScorched and hardened to protect itself, soft and green as moss inside Sweet, and spiced, bursting with life.Her hands, these strangers hands, pick at a gold mineIn her blue plastic market bag. Whose else too? Did my grandfather, more swiftly, with his lutenist fingers?Did my grandmother carefully, a way only known by raising seven children,Sift through seeds delicately or firmly or efficiently to eat in the rare hollows of her timeDid my Uncle, in the hospital, after making those magnetic images, on a break, chew the seedsIn the hospital, lose his taste, tired now to break themDifferent ward in the hospital, Arabic floating out your mouth Softer now. Quieter now. No more. Who more, will I only be able to imagine?I want to know more than how to eat. Sophia El-Salahi25'