Perhaps my kitchen?

Perhaps my kitchen smells like Palestine.
If I spill more olives will
your groves in Susiya sing again?
If I breathe in marjoram, sesame, your memories,
will justice reach the lands of farmers?
If I sprinkle za’atar, like holy water,
will it cleanse me of my stench?

Perhaps my kitchen smells like Palestine.
The caramel trace of Jericho dates,
peppered oil - a Galilee of scent.
But your rain-fed roots
of pomegranate jewels, grow
in dancing orchards you cannot tend,
a stone’s throw from your care.

Perhaps my kitchen smells like Palestine.
A fragile jar carelessly shattered
on a marble floor,
The cut of splintered glass, amongst
a cloud of perfumed spice.
Heritage cinnamon, sacred cardamom,
Must all be swept away?