The Taste of Lavash


My grandfather builds the fire first,    
piling twigs and cut logs,
using last week’s Armenian
newspaper as kindling — 
the characters of the printed page
merging and melting 
into another alphabet 
of heat and flame.

Next, a square sheet of tin
is placed over the grate 
of the backyard fireplace,
as my aunts carry out
bowls and water
to a table sitting under the trees — 
a house built of sand and wind.

My grandmother wipes her forehead
leaving behind a trace of white flour,
like the names of the dead 
she has whispered in my ear,
as she kneads and rolls 
out pieces of dough,
then  transfers each one
to a wooden paddle
I help carry to the fire.

Later, we smear fresh butter 
on each section of round, flat bread
we roll up before eating;
the salt from our sweat
mingled with the flavor
of hot buttered lavash,
like a communion 
for those left behind — 
a thin, crisp palimpsest 
of names and lives held in ash,
melting and merging
into images so old
they precede language:
just the pure flash of memory,
taste, and bread.