his voice wet with poison he could have been
on that plane i think he might cry & the sound
he chokes out makes the hair on the back of my neck
prickle up he turns & shoves me
& i feel the cold metal of the lockers against my back
terrorist bitch he spits into my hair
i raise my arms to cover my face i cower & still
they move in closer my blood feels hot
& swirls messily through my body
i press my eyes shut & will myself to vanish
but when they open i am still there
dampening with sweat i cry out for yasmeen
& they hesitate when nothing happens the boy’s hand
clamps onto my shoulder & wrenches me to the ground
i hear my heartbeat roaring in my ears
he snarls in pain i look up
& i am outside the circle standing upright & opaque
blood packed underneath my nails
The Office
i didn’t get to wash my hands & that’s proof enough
that i started it he’s bleeding & i am not
though given their number & how they tower over me
the principal decides it wasn’t one-sided
& therefore it’s only fair to suspend all five of us
& sends us out while he calls our homes one by one
Outside the Office
my mother is at work & i’m not allowed to leave
until someone comes for me my nails are bitten
to the quick & sting i can’t scrape out
the dark lines of blood
one by one the other mothers file in painted
& hairsprayed & perfumed clicking in their heeled
shoes & bustling into the principal’s office
without looking at me not even bothering
to shut the door
their indignation rings out into the hall
no way would my son varsity honor roll
his permanent record my son my son
an emotional time you know, of course,
that his father’s a pilot? says she screamed at them
in her language menacing so of course, you understand
you understand thank you exactly
i knew you’d understand & he walks them out
to their cars where they shake hands all smiling
Why Here
around sunset mama fatheya comes to get me
i tell the office she is my grandmother
& does not speak any english they look into
her wizened face & find its matching brown
in mine & let her take me home
my shirt is torn & when she asks all i’ll say
is that i fought another girl i tell her my mother
will be home soon thank her & let myself
into the apartment where i sit for hours
on our noisy couch still covered in its plastic
i am too tired to move to wash or change
my ripped clothes or scrub my fingernails
with a brush until the blood is my own
dusk falls & night falls further my mother’s key
clicks into the door & she walks in to find me
silent in the dark shirt torn & something
breaking behind my eyes & before she can ask
i am frothing with anger at everything at her
the name tag crooked on her ill-fitting blouse
the hat slipping from her face & showing strands
of her still-dark hair her sad too-blue jeans
my only family my only person & it all
feels like her fault why did you bring us here?
they hate us silence she does not tell me
to speak arabic why did you bring me here
to be tortured to be alone why would you
do that to me? she opens her mouth to speak
& nothing comes out my anger grows a second
head & makes me cruel i wish baba was here
instead of you i wish someone was here who
could protect me & i will not stay to see her cry
so i shuffle into the bathroom
to run the water to scalding
Ghosts
after i’ve sat in the bath until the water
gets cold i climb out & dry off
walk out to see my mother sitting
dejected on the couch her face
in her tired hands
before i can slink off to my room
i hear her voice a new sharpness
nima come here tell me
what happened & for a moment
i think of telling her everything
instead of carrying it all around
myself i think of laying my head
in her lap & asking her to help
to carry some of it with me
but at the sight of her head covered
in that sad knit hat i know
i will not give her anything more
to carry i can’t so all i say
is that i fought another girl
at school & i am almost relieved
by her anger the way it hardens
her soft & hurt places i don’t even
know who you are anymore
where is my daughter where
has she gone
& when she says this
i swear for a moment i see yasmeen
flickering in the corner of the room
but i ignore her to instead turn
to my mother & snarl & where
is my mom i feel sometimes
like i got two ghost parents
before turning to slam the door
to my room
The Silence
i’m suspended from school for a week
my mother leaves for work in the morning
& i hear her come quietly home at dark
i have not spoken or heard her speak
since i raised my voice that night
i spend hours imagining myself
as the other girl yasmeen not only the spirit-girl
who came to see me but the one i built for years
myself perfect in all the ways i am flawed
beautiful bright & humming & full up
with laughter beloved & blooming somewhere
kinder where her language is her own
& unhunted no one tells her to go back
where she came from because she is home
& known & never disappears into the bathwater
isn’t washed out by tears & maybe i’m
all wrong not because i’ve come to the wrong
country maybe any country on this side
of the membrane between worlds isn’t mine
& as if to confirm my body starts its new & strange hum
as both my legs go abstract as static my hips & stomach
& chest flicker in & out of color my arms
i shift my weight & the plastic couch covering does not make
a single noise remains silent as if completely
untouched i check for a reflection in the dark surface
of the dormant television & only the slightest outline
of a girl looks back i call out my voice hoarse
from disuse i’m ready now & wait for the jinn
to come fetch me to shepherd me to the other side
i close my eyes & call again heart bea
ting in my throat
a moment passes then another & i open
to see my whole body restored solid & human
& crackling the plastic on the couch
Alone
i thought haitham would call & he hasn’t
i imagine him bright & laughing with his
real friends & my loneliness grows teeth
i feel them chewing at my stomach
i miss my mother i hear her moving
through the apartment making only
the faintest sounds thin stream of
running water hushed sear of an egg
frying in butter her soft step leaving
in the mornings returning at dusk
murmuring to khaltu hala on the phone
& i ache imagining haitham somewhere
in the apartment on the other end of the line
not a day passes without a plate
left on the counter when i emerge
from my room into the afternoon light
never a note or a knock but always
without fail a plate & warm pita bread
in its basket covered with a dishcloth
cut fruit in the refrigerator curved slices
of pear sometimes apple today an orange
cold & thrilling & tart
i miss her voice naming me her small
& cool hands her unlined girl-face
her rare & lilting laugh i miss her younger
before i knew her dancing in the photo
boundless & open & full of dreaming
dressed in color jasmine blooms falling
from her neighborhood tree to rest
beneath her feet i mourn that girl & i miss
my mother the only person i belong to
the one who chose me by choosing my name
Mama
i’m sorry i blamed you i’m sorry
i yelled i’m sorry you got this storm cloud
for a daughter instead of the flowers
you deserved i’m sorry our life
is so small i’m sorry you didn’t get
to be young that you got me instead
i’m sorry you’re alone i’m sorry i’m
the only family you got to keep i’m sorry
you lost your country & got one that doesn’t
want us i’m sorry you work all day & still
don’t have anything for yourself i’m sorry
on the days you wear the hat instead of
the scarf & scared on the days you don’t
i’m sorry you didn’t get the daughter
you dreamt up the girl named for
her sweetness & blooming i’m sorry
you got me instead & were left all alone
to raise me i’m sorry my arabic
isn’t better i’m sorry for being so
american in here & not enough of one
out there i’m sorry i blamed your scarf
when they called me a terrorist i’m sorry
i blamed your loss for the ways my life
feels empty i’m sorry for not making
you laugh enough for never trying anymore
to make you smile i’m sorry
you’re lonely i am too i’m sorry
i’m not better company i’m sorry
that i’m so gloomy that i’m not
beautiful like you i’m sorry for reminding you
of my father for reminding you of what you lost
i’m sorry you made this life
for me instead of the bright & bountiful one
you could have tried to make for only
yourself i’m sorry i embarrass you
i’m sorry i don’t have anything to show you
that it was all worth it i’m sorry
i shouted at you i’ll say
when my mother gets home
Yasmeen
i’ve been in the bathtub so long i worry
something might take root
my fading fingers are graying & wrinkled
from the water i chant my apology
to my mother out loud until i feel it
memorized then hold my breath & slide
my body down the tub until my head
is underwater & in the silence i decide
yasmeen is the daughter my mother
deserves bright spot in her weary day
sprig of jasmine in her small life
something to be proud of at last
i sit up in the tub & call her in every
way i can first by name shouting it
then chanting then with a plea & still
she is not here i remember the night
she appeared the cassette & my closed
eyes mama fatheya’s warnings don’t
raise your voice or you will call them to
our side & i sing mouth open &
eyes shut i gather all the lyrics i remember
& try to lure her again
& when i’ve exhausted all the words i know
to all the songs i open my eyes
& still she will not answer me
Haitham
my mother comes home & settles heavily
onto the couch tired face in her hands
i sit next to her & begin but it comes out
all wrong out of order i’m sorry you got
me as a daughter instead of the one you deserve
i’m sorry i’m me & not yasmeen i’m sorry
& the telephone won’t stop ringing i falter
before i can finish & before she says anything
she crosses to answer the call yes
hi, khalti fatheya what is it what happened
a silence then another my mother
clamping her hand to her mouth
her eyes filling still silent yes we’re coming
we’re coming now & she fits the phone back
into its cradle get your jacket what happened
you have to get your jacket where are we going
she will not answer & after she locks the door behind us
my mother cradles my face with her cold hands
we are going to the hospital it’s haitham
The Bus
the bus clatters down the crowded street filled as always
to the brim with people all of us in shades of brown
of sepia & the smell packs tight around us bodies
worked too hard & gone sour
i am standing with my silent mother my distracted mother
swaying beside me & whispering a softest prayer under
her breath her eyes distant & downcast i miss her
& reach finally out to hold her hand right then the bus
hits a bump in the pockmarked road my mother’s hand
pulls impossibly far away from mine to grab the rail above
& i shove my fist deep into my pocket
shame hot against my throat
Haitham
seems so small crowded by machines
keeping him alive i’ve never seen him
so still so emptied of laughter a rip
in his right cheek the length of a finger
sewn up in dark stitches bandages winding
his forehead tube inserted in the corner
of his cracked mouth
mama fatheya has not greeted us has not
moved from her station at his bedside leaning
heavily on her walking stick wi
th one hand
prayer beads cabling through the other
while she recites a stream of indiscernible
language i let my eyes blur & can
see it pouring from her mouth like smoke
& absorbing into his body
behind me his mother is sobbing to mine
my fault i sent him to the bigala after dark
i should have kept him home it isn’t safe
not for any of us he’s only a little boy
& the story unfurls a group of fully grown
men circling him in the parking lot taking
turns with their boots with a bat until
the shopkeeper hearing the commotion
comes out with his shotgun & scatters them
squats over haitham’s broken body groceries
smashed & scattered on the asphalt
& while he gathers up the boy a brick
then another goes crashing through the windows
of his store & he tells haitham’s stricken mother
i don’t understand between blows they were calling
him mohammed
& i’m choking on the story on the smells on
the drone of prayers streaming from mama fatheya’s
unmoving mouth i can’t bear to be in this building
full of dying & push my way out of the room
my mother calling out behind me
Hala
the hospital is a maze every room its own private
chamber of grief i wander numbly through the stark halls
& as much as it hurts to see haitham like this when he is
usually a clatter of movement always a flurry of laughter
& talking & motioning with his hands his face’s hundred
cartoonish expressions to see him motionless
the brokenness of his face
it hurts more to be away the superstition
as always arrives to convince me he cannot die
as long as i’m in the room & i turn back to find him
outside the door my mother is sitting with khaltu hala
whose sobs have stilled her eyes are haunted staring into
some invisible point in space the words pouring
from her mouth he’s all i have he’s the only thing
in this world that’s mine it should have been me i’d give
Home Is Not a Country Page 5