The bread is still warm and risen from the souk.
Ahmad closes his eyes over each mouthful.
The Za’atar tastes like a mountainside after rain.
We pour syrup into the pomegranate juice
to mask the bitter kick the broken earth makes.
Chick Corea plays to us live in Montreux
from the same year miniskirts were all the rage
in downtown Damascus.
Ahmad never fired a gun
but he served a year in Sednaya military prison
for a ghazal he wrote about a tank
who fell in love with a beautiful village.
He shows me his new passport
with the golden Hawk of Quraish on the cover.
I pull mine out with its camp lion rampant
and unicorn horny for more Saxe-Coburglary.
Honi soit qui mal y pense.
He reads aloud in perfectly accented French.
Shamed be the person who thinks of evil.
He holds out both wrists for fantasy handcuffs.
Winner of the 2025 Plaza International Poetry Prize
Mark Fiddes 
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