if you have never wanted to fall down
for fear of God,
you do not believe.
i fear and love and
love and fear.
do not ask me why again. i am tired of your questions.
april 21, 2009. tuesday.
i watch moroccan women attempt american dances,
bracing their backs against poles and
running their hands up their thighs.
i’m still not sure why
the only parts of western culture they long for
are the ones that will tear them apart.
april 22, 2009. wednesday.
applying makeup in parking lots
and pulling bangs out from under scarves.
these are the things they think will bring them freedom
but are only imprisoning them further.
i wish i could tell them.
i wish they would understand.
certificate in one hand and a husband in the other,
april 23, 2009. thursday.
i sit in the kitchen
and listen to my aunts
and my aunt’s aunt
talk in words
i half catch
i drink shahi with
my back against cabinets and
listen to the adhan
come in through the windows.
april 24, 2009. friday.
i play chase around tall walls and
listen to a debate about
as half-naked women dance across the stage.
i’m told i’m wrong for watching it, but his eyes are glued to the screen.
still, i’m impressed that he cares.
he’s changed since last year, in more ways than one
makes me a little jealous that i haven’t morphed a lick since i was thirteen.
his cousin tells jokes in a dialect too quick for me to understand
i don’t need to, to know they’re not funny.
his skin is the color of chestnuts, though
and he looks older than he is.
if he wasn’t an asshole, he’d be beautiful.
i talk about barack obama
and twirl a toothpick between my teeth
and do my best not to look back at the grill
but i do a few times, when no one’s watching.
his hands are greasy from working the spick
so we shake wrists when we leave.
who knew a year could make such a difference?