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.

infidel (reading).

hear it here. 

infidel.

you have built entire shrines to his mouth,

living in a cathedral shaped of all his harsh 

words and discarded teeth.

stop writing psalms about his tongue,

prostrating yourself at his lips;

he does not understand 

you are hanging your moon on him.

this is sacrilege. 

neither he nor your god deserve that.

his jaw, you've made into a hollowed out ship

you ride home from loneliness.

on the sea of your insecurities,

he is like sand, scarce.

how many pilgrimages have you

made into his body?

how often have you offered 

your burnt  hopes to the holy space

inside his throat?

the way you breathe his name

is blasphemy.

i know you think burrowing yourself

into the inside of his cheek each 

night is paradise.

but when he swallows you whole,

the false gods you found in his 

wisdom teeth

will only prove wood

to the fire in his belly. 

slack-jawed.

where do you find your audacity?
where did you lose your shame?
who taught you your head
sits higher than mine?
from where did you steal
your scepter?

i will never forget
you tried to do this.

day eight.

ai.
-
i love you like

cardamom 

and bare feet,

and momma's voice,

and fall.

day seven.

eva.

-

my sister was born

on friday the thirteenth,

with blood in her mouth.

she wouldn't take our mother's milk,

stopped breathing twice in her sleep,

nona read scripture over her 

the entire first night.

aunt drina says

she didn't want this life.

she's too attracted to high places

and hot things; fascinated by 

sharp edges. we watch her

in the bath because she

likes to see how long

she can hold her breath. 

we love her,

knowing we'll 

lose her.

she's thirteen now,

and compelled by fire.

nona stays up 

praying all night.

aunt drina and uncle luca

tie bells on all the doors,

sprinkle cinnamon in

the part of her hair.

she falls asleep with the 

windows open, and

wakes up in the fields.

they say she didn't 

want this life.