Balata (for Mohammad)

he leads me through
his streets, tripping slightly
on the leg they pulled a
bullet from
snapping photos of shade and light
against grafittied walls,
of smiling children with
long eyelashes and even
longer wish lists.
stopping to buy sunflower seeds which
he shares along the way
the tough buzz cut and
dangling cigarette give way to
his brotherly hand clasping a boy's
neck sweetly
a soft look in his eyes and a certain
pride in what he
captures with the lens.
i recognize street corners and
walls from his photos, even
a face or two
and when i see a field i know
he smiles and says yes,
this is the place you wrote
a poem about
the spot where our lives came together.
words are incomplete
inadequate to capture
the slant of light along the
bough of a lone tree, too small to catch
purple blossoms falling into
puddles, drifting down beside
brief touches of green in
a sea of stone and
cement, unable to erase
the stench from this life
nor the smile from his face as he
shows us his home.

(Done as a snapshot poetry assignment I gave to my students)