when she tries to sell us America.
Baba: My Father
My father’s eyebrows are
the wings of birds
flying into the horizon.
Only when my father is mad,
they become like my mother’s.
Now that we’re moving,
from Pakistan to the United States of America,
they stay inverted.
Nana Abu
The father of my mother,
Nana Abu,
has two toes on his left foot
that hug each other
one a little in front
of the other
one a little behind
the other
that I call
hugging toes.
Even with his
hugging toes,
my grandfather does not really
give out hugs.
But when Nana told him
that we were moving,
his tree arms reached out,
long and loving limbs
gave me a side hug.
Asna
Is the tallest in the class,
taller than the boys,
taller than Mrs. Zakaria even.
I am the smallest in the class,
smaller than the teacher,
smaller than all the other boys and girls,
but when I am with Asna I am the loudest.
So Mrs. Zakaria tries to move my seat
far
from Asna.
Now that I’m moving,
my seat will be very very
far.
Now is Mrs. Zakaria happy?
Last Day of School
I make my eyes hard
scoot my chair
next to Asna
close the space
all the way
no inches left
not even a millimeter.
I look around
and dare Mrs. Zakaria
to say anything.
She doesn’t.
Asna
Asna is my friend.
Not just any friend.
Not just a good friend,
but a best friend.
Asna,
who has a new baby sister,
says
but you have to
be here
but you have to
see her grow up . . .
Have
Have you
Have you ever
Have you ever said
Have you ever said goodbye
Have you ever said goodbye to
Have you ever said goodbye to a
Have you ever said goodbye to a best
Have you ever said goodbye to a best friend?
Visiting Grandmothers
Guilt slaps
the soles of my feet
when I run up the marble stairs
to the mother of my mother,
Nana’s room.
Then I walk slowly
to Dadi’s room.
Dadi
When I tell
the mother
of my father
goodbye,
she doesn’t wish me
a safe trip
a happy life
lots of love.
Instead, she asks me my name.
Seeds of Hope
My grandmother Dadi may not know my name,
but every morning,
she scoops seed into her
palms that are
lined
lined
lined
and she scatters it
round the garden.
The birds are remembered.
When she’s not looking,
I scoop a handful of seeds,
knot them tight in my dupatta.
I will pack these with me,
take them with me,
feed the birds there,
feed them
for her.
Nana
When I tell
the mother
of my mother
goodbye,
she hugs me so tight
holds me so long
my eyes feel hot.
She is lucky.
She gets to stay.
Her roots spread deep
and don’t have to be uprooted
like me.
Did you know nasturtium flowers
don’t like to be uprooted?
Their roots don’t like new soil.
Nana
Should actually be called Nani—
mother of my mother.
But Owais’s first word was Nana—
father of my mother.
So Nana
Who is always giving us food
Who is always giving us clothes
Who is always giving us books
Who gives us everything really
grabbed the word
and said
mine.
Nana
Superb
is what Nana says
about my art
when I join her
in the afternoons
underneath the veranda fan
to paint, draw, sketch.
When I have a brush
in my hand
or a pencil,
my insides breathe.
But now that we’re moving,
Nana is too busy to paint, draw, sketch.
I can read her mind
through her quiet sighs,
slight wrinkles,
mouth stitched together,
so she doesn’t say too much.
Still—
Nana’s disapproval
is like charcoal on paper,
heavy and smudged.
They say children are more resilient than we think.
Nonsense.
Children are far less resilient than we think.
(Nana knows everything.)
My Grandmother Nana’s Hands
Pierced my ears
when I was a baby.
Fed me my first bites
of mushy khichri.
Now her hands stay busy
making clothes
for me before I leave.
Now her hands
buy yards of cotton cloth at the bazaar,
piping at the lace stall,
bring the cloth home,
soak the cloth in a plastic bucket,
so it doesn’t shrink, of course,
dry it in the sun, and take it to the tailor,
then phone the tailor—
Are the clothes ready yet?
Then return to the tailor to pick up the clothes,
hand the tailor crisp notes,
rewash and starch the clothes,
before finally giving them to me,
perfectly folded and ready to be packed.
Fold your dreams and pack them too
while you’re at it,
her eyes say.
With us gone,
what will her hands do now?
Blue Cocoon
Under the peach sky
under the crows cawing
under the veranda
by the garden
is the pool.
One thing
Owais and I do
no matter what
every day
is swim swim swim
in Nana and Nana Abu’s pool.
Nana Abu floats like a tree
sways side to side.
Nana bobs up and down
down and up
in her swimsuit and sari petticoat
while Owais and I
swim laps
back and forth
forth and back.
Owais’s arms and legs
have more rhythm than mine,
have more speed than mine,
he wins medal upon medal.
But still
we are the
Underwater Siblings.
Down at the bottom
of the pool floor
we are in a
a bright-blue world.
Safe
in our blue cocoon.
Can we stay here until
the clouds go to sleep?
They can’t make us move—
can they?
But we must
move
the same way
we must
come up for air.
Motia and Mehndi
Before ourlongflight,
Asna’s fat mehndi cone
swirls green farewell paisleys
and her initials and mine
intertwined
on my empty palms.
I push my new glasses up my nose
to study my new hands.
Before ourlongflight,
white fragrant motia flowers
are threaded together
in three delicate circles.
One circle of flowers
loops lazily over my ponytail.
Two circles of flowers
placed on my
too-skinny wrists
by Nana.
Polished petals
hinting
at New Possibilities.
At hope?
Part Two
On Land
Differences attack my senses.
The American airport has no smells.
The AC is strong.
The floor is carpeted.
The voices are bold.
The clothes are different.
And why is everyone wearing jeans?
settle
verb set·tle \se-tәl\
Definition of SETTLE
: to end (something, such as an argument) by reaching an agreement
: to make a final decision about (something)
: to move to a place and make it your home
My mother
laughs on the phone
and tells the mother of my mother
how well we are settling.
But Nana doesn’t see
what I do.
Ammi’s eyes still aren’t smiling
when she laughs,
and her eye circles run deep.
Nana doesn’t see
Ammi braiding her hair
with one hand
twirl bend loop
or
biting her nails
into crescents—
something she only does
when she’s nervous.
Settled is
when your roots are strong
and spread out every which way
like that tree—oak?
in the hotel parking lot.
(I don’t know
my American trees yet.)
Settled is
when it’s hard to pull you up,
when it’s easier just to leave you
exactly
how
you
are.
I am
dandelion fluff
ready to float
away.
If I could,
I would
float all the way back home.
I don’t even need a breeze.
My roots are anything but settled.
Nurah Haqq
I used to be light
and free
before we moved.
My name means
“light” in Arabic and Urdu,
but I do not feel light or free
anymore.
I feel heavy,
even though
I will probably be the
lightest
in my class,
with maybe the
darkest skin color.
So much for light.
My Mother
Wears a
