I found a container of halva in the checkout line 
at the local HomeGoods. What are the odds it tastes 
like what I ate growing up, this sandy, nutty sweet 
that breaks in flakes and sticks to the roof of my mouth. 
I spot, not too far away, a box of baklava ideally placed, 
I think, in the way store associates like to scatter 
items of a similar nature so it’s as if you’ve found 
exactly what you’re looking for, when you weren’t looking 
for anything at all. They seem ordinary in their white 
and light gray packaging next to the shiny pink 
and purple gumballs, stale gummy bears electric 
in their bright colors, crispy kettle chips that rattle 
without ever touching the bag. If you didn’t know a box 
is not baklava’s natural habitat, you’d see it all as Americana, 
confetti and flicker, the fourth of July. How easy it is to turn 
the word halva over, twist a v to a w, create halwa in its place.
I thought of the men on Cairene streets who spit 
ya halwa at my feet through the slits in their teeth, 
my head low dodging every drop of their sweetness. 

The number above the register lights up suddenly, 
as if in the thick of a storm, power has been restored. 
I lift my eyes to an open palm waving me this way; 
meet a voice that says: you find everything alright? 
I slide a two-dollar gift bag in rainbow/hearts design 
across the counter, a last-minute stop on the way 
to a little girl’s birthday party, and we'll run late, 
wrapping an apology with the gift 
in the back seat of the car. And the halva, well 
the halva I leave untouched for the next person 
who may find themselves one short of everything 
they thought they were looking for.