Home Is Not a Country: Part 2

mama fatheya has not greeted us has not
moved from her station at his bedside leaning
heavily on her walking stick with one hand
prayer beads cabling through the other
while she recites a stream of indiscernible
language

i should have kept him home it isn't safe
not for any of us he's only a little boy
& the story unfurls

& while he gathers up the boy a brick
then another goes crashing through the windows
of his store & he tells haitham’s stricken mother
i don't understand between blows they were calling
him mohammed

the hospital is a maze every room its own private
chamber of grief i wander numbly through the stark halls

just ahead a cluster of tents & clamoring
& music

gilded with bright foliage scattering golden leaves

& it disappears the fleeting thought he's dead
because of her

i maybe
could have wheedled a free plate of fries some water
from the kind waitress with my sad story

i crawl into the very last row & cower as the shuttle
fills in sparsely with passengers

no girl i named would ever be allowed out looking
like this she must not have a family at least not one
that she matters to & i feel shame like bile rising sour
in my throat

& in the silver quiet i feel the exhaustion soak
my body & i feel homesick for the confines
of the apartment safe from this enormous world

& just beyond them on a makeshift
rickety stage the band pours its song into the night

& in front of me is a jasmine tree
its flowers blooming & perfume heady & sweet

the aching notes
of the call to prayer echoing out
from a minaret nearby

hi, i'm nima she smiles & i watch my face in hers
my smile stretching into hers but the eyebrows
are less unruly & the hair is plaited neatly into a thick
untousled braid

haitham’s
disappeared father living & gesturing wildly
with his hands as he talks in the exact manner
of haitham his wiry frame & big teeth

if he ever feels unwanted if it hurts him to hear me
rhapsodize about my immortalized father while never asking
about his dreams of his

i nod & spend the rest of the walk answering her
about school & arabic class & my mother & haitham
& mama fatheya & khaltu hala about all
the contours of my small life

& she listens rapt nodding & exclaiming
& asking more questions & it feels so good
to feel so interesting to be attended to
in her unblinking way

inside a tiled courtyard scattered
with potted flowers gnarled cacti

though her voice is full of mirth when she calls
home so early?

its every wall hung heavy with pictures creased
with age & soft in gray tones men in neat suits

& cylindrical hats each one jaunty with its tassel

some swathed from neck to ankle in tobes their colors
lost to time & the gray scale of the camera

mama fatheya retreats to her room her anger searing
& silent except for the eloquent slam of her bedroom door

from the photos we follow him & i learn the long gait
of his walk his tall & wiry frame his scent

saudi arabia canada he claps my father jovially
on the shoulder why don’t you & the wife come with us?

henna a crimson highlight in her hair reddest
at the neat parting & two long scars burned ceremonially

down each of her cheeks an adornment from
a forgotten time

my mother is quiet
at first wary then her face clears & she claps her hands

when amal wins the fourth round & i feel the ominous hum

in my body again i cast about in panic for a way
to stop the game

below us the world is rendered
in every variation of brown sudden shocks of other
colors bougainvillea planted everywhere glossy green

& i feel a surge of resentment
i curse my stupid sense of responsibility

to this spirit-girl who still probably wants me dead
who probably would not have saved me

i bring
my hands to my face in the coy motion she taught me
& swing my hair from side to side

we sit in a new silence shy in the aftermath
of our brittle sisterhood watching the ebb & flow
of the party

she crashes into a small table holding half-drunk glasses
of hibiscus juice

before careening toward another table holding
the cassette player

she waves away the proffered glass of water

& something in me bristles at hearing
yasmeen described like that like some sort of monster
hearing someone who doesn’t even know her just decide
what she is what she’s like

time passes & the ruined party continues to disperse
a few stray guests help rearrange the fallen furniture

& gingerly gather the scattered shards of glass

he does not look at her & as she motions
to her stomach with a plea he strikes
the dashboard says something curt
& cutting

my mother is crumpled in her bed the pillow
on my father’s side undisturbed & smooth
his few clothes & books & records tossed into
the little car & gone no one to rub her back
& wipe her face as she convulsed all night with grief

& looks awed down at her stomach touches it
reverently & in the quiet wraps her voice around
my name