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Hassan Yemenite cab driver he has seven children  showed us their pictures

a farm in central Yemen where he was born

invited us to Harlem to meet them all his wife makes lamb

and basmati rice you’ll die of happiness he said I buy the lamb

on 153rd Street and the Grand Concourse as fresh as in Yemen

give me your number said Hassan I’ll invite all of you to dinner

and then yesterday in the afternoon Hassan called: did you think

I’d forget or that I’d loose your number?  It’s 2019 he said.

Come to us and eat some lamb.

 

 

Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.

4 Comments

  1. I love to hear the stories of the cabbies and others who are immigrants. I think of my parents’ families coming to America in the 1880’s-1900, and think maybe their stories were similar. Seems the main differences are that more recent immigrants speak more English, and my grandparents spoke very little, and 1) I was too young to ask the important stories of their lives in the “old country” and 2) I was told when I asked my parents what they knew, their parents “didn’t want to talk about the old country” and 3) my parents (1st gen) were 100% into assimilation. Let us know if you go up to the Bronx for lamb with the Yemenites!

  2. My brother and his son raise sheep and often sell them to immigrants for their holidays. It’a good to be able to provide a taste of home to people who are far from their childhood domain. Your poem helped me feel their nostalgia.

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