Aunties will smile wider
when he is around
will compliment his looks
the slice of his dimple
when they think he can’t hear,
but they forget that
we can hear
much more
than they think.
Masjid
At the masjid
I am covered.
You can see just my face
and hands.
Here we are mirrors
of each other.
Everyone here is almost all brown—
different shades,
and I feel like I can breathe easier,
like I’m almost home.
With my forehead down
on the prayer mat,
cool and soft,
I pray for me
to make the swim team.
I pray for medals.
I pray for peace in Pakistan.
I pray for God to give me the world.
Ripe and glistening
a gift
in my palm.
At the masjid, no boys will try to shake my hand.
Here the girls will try to be my friend,
but I will see them looking over my shoulder.
Is Owais looking?
I talk about him just enough
to keep their attention.
Junaid
Owais’s new masjid friend is named Junaid.
After basketball in the parking lot
when the boys are in a circle,
even though a circle has no point,
no leader,
he is the leader.
His laugh the loudest,
his eyes the brightest.
In my mind,
his name bounces
round and round.
Does Owais talk about me at all to him?
I wonder.
Hair
It is too long
and its weight
is bogging me
d
o
w
n.
At the salon,
I point to my chin,
like a girl in a magazine
confident and smooth,
to show the lady
how short I want it to be.
Sweetie,
is your mom here with you?
My head shakes angrily.
No.
Can I talk to her on the phone?
I am tired
of always being treated
like a baby,
but I mumble the number anyway,
a number that I don’t even like
memorizing
because I miss my old number
back home.
I just wanted to make sure
it was okay to cut her hair so short.
She looks so young!
As she cuts and snips,
my anger evaporates.
But when the assistant
sweeps away my hair
smiles at the
silky black Cs
on the floor,
she says
I’m trying to grow my hair out.
Just like how your hair
used to be.
I don’t smile back.
School
I get random
compliments
from random people.
But when Aidan
walks by me in the hallway
he looks looks looks
at me
just me
and says,
Nice hair, Nurah.
I now know the reason
for my haircut.
Stand Out
Coffee break! yells Coach Kelly
whenever she wants to give us
a pep talk.
Remember,
when you’re in the water,
you want to STAND OUT.
Got it?
Stand out.
We nod
and shiver.
Yes,
we will
do our best
to stand out.
Fall Parent Conferences
Needs to participate more
is written under the comments.
She can’t stop talking at home,
Ammi tells Ms. White.
I am tired of being told
I talk too much
or I talk too little.
Ms. White thinks
I talk too little.
Coach Kelly thinks
I talk too much.
Why can’t they just let me
be?
Hi, Nurah!
This is my mom.
This is my dad.
Stahr says to everyone,
eyes gray today
because she’s wearing gray.
Walking proudly
next to her parents.
I do not tell anyone
This is my mom
or this is my dad.
I try to walk a little in front,
sometimes a little behind.
Ammi is the only one
wearing a hijab
(seafoam green at that)
and even though I like the sea,
I really don’t want
to call more attention
to us.
Why can’t I just
blend,
like everyone else?
Why can’t I just
blend,
like Stahr?
Amphibian
In water
I want to stand out.
But on land
I want to blend in.
On the Way Home
What a friendly child
your friend Stahr . . .
what nice parents too . . . ,
Baba and Ammi remark
and I hate
how anger
pools inside of
me.
To make them stop,
Her dad hits her, I say
and my mother’s face is sad again.
Swim Team
My mother’s face
My father’s face
My brother’s face
My face
are happy today
because we both made the team.
(Stahr too!)
In a red booth
we sprinkle pizza with red pepper.
In a red booth
my mother wears red lipstick.
In a red booth
the cheese melts long and liquid—
into joy.
Part Four
My Mother’s Belly
The belly of my mother is
mostly flat
but inside it
there is a secret.
The secret
is the size
of a raspberry.
I am expecting a baby,
she says, her voice full of
hesitation,
but underneath the hesitation,
I hear hope.
I finally feel
light
like the meaning
of my name.
Back Home
Asna has a baby sister
whose hair smells like Cocoa Puffs
and when I held
the baby,
I knew
how to
curl my mouth
into
a sh-sh-sh-sh.
I knew
how to
bend my knees
up-down-up-down.
My body will remember
again.
Doubts
But later,
when I’m alone,
I wonder and wonder and wonder
and the wondering makes
me feel heavy and heavy and heavy
all over again.
Before Bed
Did we move to
America
just so you could have babies
who are American citizens?
Is that why we are here?
The question slips out
much louder than I meant it to
and I can taste the salty anger
on my tongue.
My mother looks up
while she braids
her hair with one hand—
twirl bend loop.
Her face tired,
so tired
that I feel sorry—
I wish I could iron
her wrinkles away.
My Father’s Answer
No
No
No
No
That is not the reason
that we are here.
We are here because of
job security,
the schools are better,
more opportunities.
Don’t you like it here?
Anger
When I was little
and I lost swimming races
against Owais,
I would cry tears
shaped like secrets,
salt mixed with chlorine
behind my goggles.
I would throw my towel
call him names
churning the sadness
into anger.
Because isn’t it easier
to be angry
than sad?
Swimming
The next day,
sunlight
brings
me
hope.
At times, I don’t
understand the moods
of my heart.
But today
is easy.
Owais and I dive
high from the board
deep into the pool.
Everyone swims
(Baba too!),
except our mother,
whose face is
yellowy and who
doesn’t like the smell of chicken
or spices
(or anything really)
so we pick up fish fillets
(the only thing that could be halal
on the menu)
through McDonald’s
drive-through
on
the
way
home.
The Moment
The moment the ultrasound technician
tells my mother,
I am eating an aloo kabab sandwich at school,
Owais is solving for x,
and our father has just made a big sale.
Teatime
I spread the butter
just so,
bury it under jam,
am slicing the crusts off my toast
when my mother says
I’m not having a baby anymore.
I stop slicing.
On the ultrasound, they saw an egg sac,
but there was no baby inside.
Ammi, I don’t understand.
This means there is a baby’s home,
but no baby.
I understand the baby.
It didn’t feel like the egg sac was
home.
It, too, didn’t want to join us
in a place that doesn’t feel like
home.
Part Five
The House
That doesn’t feel like home
yet
is changing.
The sink once hungry
and hollow
is now swollen,
throwing up dishes.
Dust hugs the corners.
Stubborn crumbs
stick to feet.
I squirt soap
into the shape of a
heart
onto a sponge.
How can I
take care of a baby
when I can’t
even
take care of a house?
Ammi’s voice is
a cracking eggshell.
Before her face gets
runny,
she walks away.
Fact: I have never seen
my mother cry.
Raspberry
I never liked
the
