You can't be, says a Palestinian Christian br on the first feast day after Ramadan. br So, half-and-half and half-and-half. br He sells glass. He knows about broken bits, br chips. If you love Jesus you can't love br anyone else. Says he. br br At his stall of blue pitchers on the Via Dolorosa, br he's sweeping. The rubbed stones br feel holy. Dusting of powdered sugar br across faces of date-stuffed mamool. br br This morning we lit the slim white candles br which bend over at the waist by noon. br For once the priests weren't fighting br in the church for the best spots to stand. br As a boy, my father listened to them fight. br This is partly why he prays in no language br but his own. Why I press my lips br to every exception. br br A woman opens a window—here and here and here— br placing a vase of blue flowers br on an orange cloth. I follow her. br She is making a soup from what she had left br in the bowl, the shriveled garlic and bent bean. br She is leaving nothing out. br br br Submitted by R.