top of page

Falafel Zionism

Flour, water, a pinch of salt

rolls of dough fashioned by

experienced Yemenite fingers

baking puffing proudly in oven

dropping scorching

slightly tanned now, cooling

pockets slit open with sharp knife

wrist flicking hand inserted

testing for any unseen hole

then (this is the main feature)
popping inside brown-green balls of

fried heaven, chickpea, sesame,

parsley cumin scented crispy

flavored – one, two, three, four,

openmouthed I’m drooling–

tomato-cucumber chunks,

sour cabbage, eggplant slivers

sumac-scented onion bursting out,

now he’s looking at me, tongs

poised. I can’t tell him to stop–

everything I say, everything and

he’s incredibly adding French fries

two more balls, parsley sprinkles,

chili paste, dribbled techina,

a pickled pepper–thank God for

the paper bag, now off to a corner

to crunch my way through all

this, forget about beachside restaurants,

sushi parlors, waiters’ arms piled high

with plates of salads, this is the real

Israel, all for three dollars, terrorist

warnings be damned I’m coming

back again next year

To Go Back To
Hit your browser's

© Johnmichael Simon



bottom of page