By the pink draws of the quasi-
quilted curtains, the rough calluses
sluggishly lay down upon terracotta tiles,
& dappled saddles repose on
humps of camels – this isn’t home –
a vicinity of ages: blue bottles &
stonefish’s; onion skins chafed against
brown skin & foreheads caressing
a plush maroon rug. Quranic verses guide
us through this loss, aware that
it’s a trillion times easier to be a man than
it is to be a woman; to be born
white than it is to be born brown. Syllables
of identity drip off the tongue, like
loosely threaded paintings & gossamer threads.
Home – where mosquitoes laze
stubbornly & oh the humidity, and oh a carton of
mangoes & spicy, spicy grapes.
