Home Is Not a Country
Page 8
their laugh their electric darting movements i wonder
if he ever feels unwanted if it hurts him to hear me
rhapsodize about my immortalized father while never asking
about his dreams of his i wonder if he thinks about him
what he thinks about him i wonder if he’s still alive
haitham’s father where he lives
i will not let myself wonder
if haitham is still alive if i’ll ever see him again
The Lesson
khaltu amal who i guess is not my khaltu yet just amal
a bride-to-be stands facing my mother not yet
my mother just aisha in the newly gathered circle
of women some accompanied by drums
some clapping their two hands aisha dances & amal
tries to mirror her movements but cannot catch
the drumbeat my mother stops & works to rearrange
amal’s posture just as she does with mine
back arched arms pulled back at the shoulder
like resting wings chin tilted skyward
try it again from the waist this time, not the legs slowly
good! now faster & as the dance arranges itself
into amal’s formerly graceless body i see her face light up
in a smile not the strained grimace i’ve seen her wearing
all my life this one reaches her eyes & glows
& together she & aisha fall into step the others rising
from their chairs to join them one of them calls
to my mother aisha graceful one they should have
named you nima grace & my mother laughs
it’s too late to change mine but maybe i’ll save it for my daughter
The Lovers
the band plays its final soaring note & the party
releases its clamor of guests they pile into cars & onto
motorcycles & i try to memorize each face before
it absorbs back into history
my parents hand in hand set off on foot
& walk the wide road along the river
their chatter soft in the cooling air yasmeen & i
hurrying behind them trying to get close enough
to hear my mother’s voice floats toward us
i think it’s a girl a daughter her small hands
unchanged by the years touching her stomach in awe
& though his face creases a little in an expression
i do not know i quickly forget
because for the first time i am hearing
my father’s voice deep & throaty
a pleasant growl wrapping itself around
my mother’s name in wonder in disbelief
& with a whoop of excitement
he picks his beloved up by the waist their child
piecing together inside he spins her around
until they are both dizzy & helpless with laughter
Yasmeen
my parents just ahead of us walking hand
in hand & content the hot air
like a woolen blanket thick & comforting
even with the sweat glossing my brow
prickling in my armpits i turn to yasmeen
i have so many questions for you
i don’t even know where to start
& she smiles me too. can i go first?
i nod & spend the rest of the walk answering her
about school & arabic class & my mother & haitham
& mama fatheya & khaltu hala about all
the contours of my small life the photographs
& old songs i collect i tell her about my loneliness
my mother’s loneliness & i even
with a little pang of embarrassment tell her
about the music videos about dancing
& the way it makes me feel to forget my body
to imagine it freer & full of grace
& she listens rapt nodding & exclaiming
& asking more questions & it feels so good
to feel so interesting to be attended to
in her unblinking way & now my father is reaching
for the gate & i haven’t gotten to ask yasmeen
a single question of my own
The House
we arrive outside a whitewashed house
where my father unlocks the gate
inside a tiled courtyard scattered
with potted flowers gnarled cacti
walls carpeted in bougainvillea
a jasmine tree thickly perfuming the air
my grandmother her face rounded
like my mother’s hair still dark & streaked
with gray parted in two heavy braids
coiled around her ears waters the flowers
in her nightgown raises an eyebrow as the gate
swings open to let my parents inside
though her voice is full of mirth when she calls
home so early? & her daughter
& new son smile back she sets down her watering can
& labors to her feet bemoans her creaking knees
seated at the kitchen table over plates
of spiced beans sheep’s cheese & charred
puffs of bread my mother shyly reveals
her news her mother’s ululating wakes the cats
& they slink unimpressed into the yard
Morning
my parents set off for bed & i fall into
a dreamless sleep right there
at the kitchen table arms folded to pillow
my racing head & wake to sunlight
like i’ve never seen so bright so saturated
it is almost a pigment almost the color
of marigolds & before i can convince myself
i’ve dreamt the whole thing yasmeen’s voice
calls out behind me you know you snore,
right? i turn to see her crisp & uncrumpled
& polished & as i open my mouth to ask
if she’d even slept a movement outside the window
catches my eye my grandmother awake
& feeding the birds & in this perfect morning light
i see so much of my face in hers i almost think to love it
The Photographs
i wander out of the kitchen to explore the rest
of the quiet house its cool stone floors
its every wall hung heavy with pictures creased
with age & soft in gray tones men in neat suits
& cylindrical hats each one jaunty with its tassel
men in crisp white tunics a turban winding each head
& most of all photographs crowded with women
covered & uncovered some in sundresses
flared around the ankle enormous sunglasses
beehives & bouffants & big curls & coiffed waves
some swathed from neck to ankle in tobes their colors
lost to time & the gray scale of the camera
all of them my people all of them unknown
i peer into each face & feel for the first time
that i belong to other people my face just a collage
of all their faces & beyond the gray of the photos
i swear i see my exact shade of brown my exact
eyes each exact coil of my hair inherited
from the bodies in these photographs & now
my body mine my turn with these features
i turn to find yasmeen beside me gazing into these same
photographs hunger in her upturned face
Yasmeen
moved by the ache in yasmeen’s eyes & knowing
she must see it echoed in mine i put my hand on her arm
i don’t know how else to explain this connection i feel to
the girl with my face who longs for what i long for
whose smile is my smile & i am brimming with questions
where do you live? where did you grow up?
do you know how you got your name? she skips over
the first two & gets right to the name it’s honestly so dumb
mama just likes the flower that’s it i always wished
i’d gotten your name instead one that actually
means something & through her eyes my name takes on
a new polish like i am finally
holding it up to the light
Room
a song wafts down the stairs & yasmeen & i
pull ourselves from the moment to follow it
in a small room painted pool-water blue my parents
still in their party clothes are sprawled across
their unmade bed
staring up at the lazy turns of the ceiling fan their fingers
interlaced laughter & chatter interrupted
only to change the song
to remark i love this one & sing along to a few words
the room is cluttered records stacked on every surface
books balanced between them some tented open
to mark a page
my mother sits up cross-legged
on the patterned bedspread
do you think it’s too early to call hala? i’m worried about her
& just then as if summoned the telephone
on the bedside table
starts to ring my father answers listening intently
answering only in short syllables yes where? okay
puts the receiver back into its cradle as he stands shoving
his feet into shoes buttoning his shirt he tosses
a simple gray scarf to my mother & says his voice strained let’s go it’s hala they caught her with ashraf last night
alone in his car
they’ve been detained the charge is adultery
Hala
we idle in the car outside a large white house
with blue shutters until another car arrives
screeching to a halt & a younger mama fatheya draped
in a brightly patterned tobe steps out
partway through what must have been a much longer speech
our whole family’s reputation your father will be
the laughingstock of the university & how am i ever supposed
to show my face again i can’t believe you’d be so stupid
what would you have done if i hadn’t happened to have american
dollars for the bribe maybe it would have served you right if i’d
just left you to rot in that cell with that shameful boy
to serve out your sentence i should be hearing
some thanks some gratitude some kind of apology
khaltu hala sits unmoving on the passenger side
her hair which last night was long & lush thick with kink
& curl now shorn close against her skull
a bruise blooming over her left eye i feel already
full of seeing already the full weight of everything
i was never told everything that was kept from me
i turn to yasmeen & see my own shock mirrored in her face
Hala
inside the house is large & airy cool stone floors
gauzy curtains softening the blazing sun outside
mama fatheya retreats to her room her anger searing
& silent except for the eloquent slam of her bedroom door
in her own room khaltu hala sits bolt upright her eyes
bloodshot & tearless beneath the uneven shear of her hair
my mother sits beside her stricken & in the twitch
of her hand i see her deciding whether or not she can touch
her friend what comfort she can muster in the face
of this great rupture moments pass & finally
aisha exhales reaches her hand & rests it gently
on hala’s shoulder & the stillness is broken
& hala crumples with an unearthly howl
into my mother’s lap & in an echo of the scene
i last remember them in my mother gathers her
into her arms & rocks her in that familiar chant
i know i know i know
my father hovers in the doorway his posture unsure
& when hala starts to cry he averts his eyes
& does her the kindness of slipping wordlessly
from the room my mother catches his eye
in his retreat mouths thank you
Baba
we leave my mother to comfort khaltu hala
while yasmeen & i follow my father through his day
i can’t help but ache watching his face moving & full
of muscle replacing the frozen one i’ve memorized
from the photos we follow him & i learn the long gait
of his walk his tall & wiry frame his scent
of apples & smoke he stops at a small cafe packed
with men drinking tea & shouting & playing backgammon
at a table crowded with his friends he is greeted
with a cheer ahmed! & i feel tears in my throat
at the sound of his name almost lost to time
my mother never says it hardly ever
speaks of him & when she does refers to him
only as your father my father ahmed
sprawls into a chair & lights the cigarette he pulls
from behind his ear his eyes thick-lashed & alert
as he listens to story after story though he keeps
mostly quiet he keeps hala’s secret keeps the news
of the baby of me a secret & though he laughs
at every joke & though i am barely acquainted
with his face its movements & its moods i think i see
a tightness in the smile but i don’t know what to name it
Baba
as the table starts to empty my father rearranges
his long limbs & orders a glass of tea it arrives
with a thick snowfall of sugar at the bottom of the cup
he stirs looks into its amber depth & sighs
his eyebrows thick & unruly as mine
knit together while he wrestles with some thought
that troubles him his forehead furrowing tea cooling
& undrunk a man i recognize from the party joins him
apologizes for being late motions to the waiter
for another glass of tea & settles comfortably
into one-sided chatter with my father
the price of oil the price of bread his wife
aching for a child that will not come some friends
thinking of leaving for england others for egypt
saudi arabia canada he claps my father jovially
on the shoulder why don’t you & the wife come with us?
soon there won’t be any work left here
for anyone & i hear you get used to the cold
my father tries & fails to force a smile his face breaks
& i listen holding my breath ready for the pieces
to finally fit into place the story of why we left our country
our home & even america takes on a new luster
at the thought that baba chose it for us
that we were all meant to go together
to call a new country our home
The Coward
instead i watch my father tell his friend
that he is going to leave my mother
& he is going to leave me though i can barely
hear him over the throb of my own sinking heart
the roar of blood in my ears i’m not ready
i’m not i love her i do i just always thought
i’d get to be young a little longer maybe see the world
i’ve never even left this city this country & now we’re having
this child & i don’t think i want that i guess i never
thought my life would get so small so soon a child?
with what money? what house? she wants all three
of us crowded into that room? all three of us sleeping
in her childhood bed? in her childhood home?
& doesn’t care how that makes me look how it makes me feel
all of it it’s embarrassing i hoped we were going to get out
of this country people have started to go missing & now
the soldiers everywhere the raids we could have tried
to leave & live a different kind of life & now we’re stuck
his friend studies him blows on his tea & takes a sip
so you come with us do you already have a passport?
Mama
as my father plans the details of his escape i drink in
one last look at his weak face to replace the picture
in my mind in the photographs & my heart
hurts again & again for my mother twirled in the street
by the coward she loves off imagining names
for the daughter she was always going to raise alone
& i feel stupid ashamed of the life i spent pining
for this stranger this man i never knew who never
wanted to know me this ghost i’ve measured my mother
against & now i know him & i know he was never mine
to miss even if he’d lived mama was always