Ghafir’s donkey brays in the compound,

hoarse and regular as a smoker’s

morning cough.

There will be tea brewing;

we can squat by the fire

for the ritual pouring,

the trickle of liquid

out of the blue enamel pot

into tiny glasses

that burn our fingers.

Afterwards, no tea will ever taste the same;

even if you did perfect the recipe,

there would not be

the mimosa tree,

sun softening tar on the pavement,

blue sky,

terracotta earth that stains

your white tee-shirt

and doesn’t come out

in the wash;

there wouldn’t be Ghafir,

his donkey.