has 2 arms
and is better than me
at everything
I didn’t call back.
When trouble
was thick in the air,
heavy in my ears,
I just watched
and waited.
Invisible.
Probably
He is probably just taking
a long
long
long
long
long
shower.
Right?
Lifeguard
Turning out the lights
my tongue is swollen
with tension.
My words are dry.
My brother hasn’t
come out yet,
can you check on him—
please?
Stretcher
Under a sky
the color of
broken promises
the body of
my brother
is lifted out
of the locker room
in a stretcher.
His face
is puffy
and discolored.
I feel so
so
so
alone.
Why did
I let him go?
Hospital
At the hospital
my parents will
demand
Who has done this?
Why did they do it?
But I will
just shrug.
The words
clogged in my throat.
Sorry
He cannot hear me.
At least I think he can’t . . .
I hold his hand,
I’m sorry
I didn’t warn you.
More sorry
than you can
imagine.
The sorry
loosens my tongue.
The sorry
teaches me that next time—
if there’s a next time—
I will know what to do.
I will know what to say.
I will
I will always
I will always say
I will always say something.
Fighter
When my brother wakes up,
his face is still a little colorful.
Owais, what happened?
Nurah, I told them
I’m not a fighter,
but they wouldn’t listen.
They wouldn’t listen . . .
Doesn’t he know
the day we came here
we were made into
fighters?
Home Visit
Coach Kelly
comes to our house
and words like
surveillance cameras
file a report
justice must be served
are written by Baba
on bright-yellow paper
served on the table
right next to chai
next to Owais’s
emergency room
discharge papers.
Words fill up
the paper.
For My Brother
Before I felt
bubbles of anger.
Now I feel a
Waterf
a
l
l
of regret.
For my brother,
I churn my apology into action.
I bring him steaming bowls of dal,
fresh stories of back home,
a pile of laundry
with socks matched
toe to toe.
I tell him he doesn’t look so bad,
wait for him to smile,
but he’s not ready yet.
Later
His face will become
the right color.
He will be fine.
Handsome again.
The two boys
will be reported
but they will come back
to the Rec Center
unfazed
and my brother
my brave
diving brother
will stay away from
the blue cocoon
of water.
Part Eight
In America
I will look
for my grandparents
by habit
even though I know
they are back home
in Pakistan.
I realize
when I am in
the checkout line
helping
my mother
(always helping)
bananas
eggs
cans of tomato sauce
(for curry)
that I don’t see
old people
here.
Where do they hide?
Here I see
young
and middle aged.
Only later when I join
Key Club
and have community service
I finally see
the old people
in nursing homes
rocking on chairs
staring into space
not being served
crispy samosas
not having their feet
massaged
not being visited.
Just staring.
Dadi
When Baba
says that Dadi is going to visit
to see a few doctors,
my heart lifts
to the top
of my short hair
I will see her soon.
But it drops again
to the bottoms
of my feet
when I remember that she
won’t remember
my name.
Airport
At the Atlanta
international terminal
anticipation bubbles
around me.
There are people
who have light skin
the color of milk
with a drop of tea,
medium skin
the color of milky tea,
and dark skin
the color of tea
without a drop of milk.
People who are all
looking around
hungry for family.
I am holding my sign
Welcome Dadi!
On purpose
I left out
Home
because America
is not a home
for Dadi.
When Zaidu Chacha
and the attendant
walks Dadi out,
we wave big.
But Dadi
sees us
has to be guided over
to us
and when she sees us
her arms pat
the bones in my back,
and I smile big
because she must
remember me,
but then she
asks my name.
Babysitting
One Friday a month,
my neighbor Ms. Grayson asks me to babysit
her kids.
For dinner,
I feed them
sticks of fish
trees of broccoli
valleys of chocolate mousse.
At bedtime,
I braid the sky
with my stories.
I blend
stories of land
stories of oceans
stories of Pakistan.
When Ms. Grayson returns,
my stories evaporate back into the sky,
but it’s okay because I get paid money.
Hardware Store—$14.99
In the aisle
next to food for cats
and food for dogs
I see the food that will make
Dadi happy—
food for birds.
In the area
at the back
that peeks outside
I use my babysitting money
to buy a pot of flowers
that will make
Dadi happy—
petunias.
Garden
On the grass that is
green
like the Pakistan flag
Dadi’s mind becomes
like a pointed pencil,
sharp,
as she scoops out
the birdseed
I bought for her.
Dadi’s hands
do not tremble.
Dadi’s hands
are full of
purpose.
Dadi holds in
a deep breath
full of hope
and longing
before letting out a laugh
that floats.
The cardinal comes
right before sunset,
a fluttering flash
of red wings.
Deadheading
Dadi’s voice is clear
as she pinches off
pouty pink petunias,
wilted blooms.
You need to get rid of
all the old
and dead flowers
to make space
for new ones.
Maybe I need to get rid
of all my old
and bad choices
to make space
for new ones?
Chess
My brother spends
too much time in his room
so I set up the chessboard
and challenge Owais.
Usually Owais wins,
but today looking at the pieces
his mouth goes into a yawn.
When I play Owais,
his mind is not on the perfect squares in front of us
but on the other shapes in his mind.
In chess,
my horse hops
my bishop bops
my queen glides everywhere.
Checkmate!
And even though I’m finally beating Owais in something,
it doesn’t really feel good.
Junaid
At the masjid
he is the one who makes the others invisible.
Everyone seems to light up
around Junaid,
even Owais.
In the parking lot
under the basketball hoop
Junaid dribbles neatly
jumps high
swishes the ball through the net.
Nothing about Junaid
is awkward.
He moves like water.
My eyes must be drinking
because when he pauses to look at me
looking at him
I feel important
and floaty
like the ocean.
Conspirator
After Zaidu Chacha flies home,
Dadi whispers to me,
not Owais, because
he is
always in his room
lately,
because he is safer
on land
than in water,
Do you want
to go to Baskin-Robbins?
I say Yes!
But today,
my mouth apologizes No because I am struggling
to balance equations
in chemistry.
Carbon
Hydrogen
Oxygen.
I balance my voice
because that is something
I know how to do
and focus
on my work again.
But when the house
gets quiet
too quiet
because I don’t hear
her Quran playing
in the back
or hear her tasbih beads
clicking praying clicking praying clicking praying
I get up to get
a glass of water
then run to the wide-open
front door.
Where is she?
Panic.
I run down the
cul-de-sac.
She is not there.
Up the steep hill—
she is not there.
On the walking path
I spot her curlers
her nightgown
swirling with the wind
right
and left.
I call her name
and she looks up at me.
Confused at first,
she smiles.
My heart whispers
Alhamdulillah.
Praise be to God.
The Walk Home
When we walk home
the next-door neighbor
Ms. Grayson waves hello.
Hi y’all!
She smiles with her coral-painted lips,
but not with her eyes.
And even though Dadi’s mind
is unraveling,
she sees this
and returns the same
lukewarm smile.
When Ms. Grayson
pulls me to the side
and asks,
Does she speak English?
I am so angry
I want to spit.
Do you know that she reads
Yeats,
Shakespeare,
Austen?
Do you know that she has
shelves full
of books?
Do you know that she graduated
top of her class?
Do you know that she taught
English at school?
Instead, I nod,
keep walking,
and never
