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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
© Johnmichael Simon
2015
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