shahi.

i wrote a poem to your skin once,

while your mother made me tea.

i didn't read it to her, of course.

but she gave me a note

that called me 

her daughter-in-law,

she said it was our crime.

i tore it up after she left, hid 

the pieces under my mattress.

i drink tea by myself,

and write another poem to your skin.

ramadan kareem.

Iftar at my Christian mother's is always a treat. Ten minutes before Maghrib, and everything's ready but the salad. I'm chopping vegetables with my mother in the kitchen. A mix of east and west: southern grilled squash, baked sweet potatoes, Libyan salad, and of course, dates and milk.

My eight-year-old brother, having memorized the time of Maghrib today, shouts out from the living room, "Six more minutes!" My six-year-old brother sings "God is big, big, big, His love is wide, wide, wide" while the sun sinks.

I sing with him while I finish the salad. The adhan calls out from my computer.

I break my fast and pray. One of my brothers usually rolls my mat out for me in the direction of the Qiblah and brings me my prayer clothes. Not today, so I have to do it myself. I remind myself to thank God for my family.

We watch Prince of Egypt over iftar. Once we're done eating, me and my mother move to the couch with our laptops, where we watch with one eye and research Biblical history with the other. We discuss Moses in the Bible and the Qur'an. The differences are infinitesimal.

Before the movie is over, we've covered David and Solomon, Lot and his people, the creation of Adam, the origin of Satan, and the nature of angels.

Moses delivers his people out of Egypt. The credits roll. One out of three boys is asleep and the other two are sent to bed. I thank God for my family.

Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah.