where magic happens

where the taste of home

coats my tongue.

When Miss Polly or Miss Josefina say

Something sure does smell good

(it does!)

Ammi packs them curried rice

to take home.

Even though Ammi uses

frozen bags of vegetables

and fried onions from packets

and tomato sauce from cans,

we scoop the steamy golden rice

into our mouths

over and over

again.

The Ways of Rice

Ammi shows us

the ways of rice.

In Karachi we had a cook

named Zeeshan.

Now we must help Ammi.

We put 2 teacups

of rice in a pot

(the one with the

jiggly handle).

Wash with cold water.

Measure the water up

to 1 fingertip line

and cook on bubbly high.

Once the rice

swallows up the water

and it looks like finger holes

are poked in the rice,

Owais covers the pot

and sets the timer

for 10 minutes.

We wait wait wait

until

the beeeeep!

I fluff the rice

with a fork,

coat it with ghee . . .

Cooking coats us

with togetherness.

House Hunting

We see houses that are too big.

Some houses that are too small.

One house looks “just right,”

a room for me

a room for Owais.

The “just right” house has big windows,

rectangles of sunshine that warm

my outside skin,

and black creepy shutters that chill

my inside skin.

My parents pray istikhara,

Oh God

I seek your counsel.

If you know buying this house

is good for me,

my religion

my life

then decree it for me.

If it’s bad for me,

then turn it away from me

and give me something good

and make me satisfied with it . . .

My parents pray

they talk

they sleep on it

then they say Yes.

We get the “just right” house

creepy black shutters and all.

A New House

We are in the new “just right” house

finally

with carpets the color

of teeth.

We are scurrying

like roaches

unwanted visitors

because the plumber

is coming.

Quick

wipe the counters,

Quick

wash the dishes,

Quick

vacuum the crumbs.

But why?

We wonder.

Because we don’t want the plumber

to think Muslims are dirty!

Ammi’s hands pause from washing

and find their way

to her hips.

The air puffs my hair,

floats it,

as I sigh.

The plumber comes

and goes

and he does not take

off his shoes,

leaving red footprints

of Georgia clay

on the white carpet.

And we are the ones

worried

about

dirt?

Lunchtime

The loud chattering

of friends

who are not

my friends

scrapes at my soul.

I never know

where to sit

or who with.

So I sit underneath

the stairwell

in a triangle space

that is dark and small,

just like me.

In my last school,

I always knew

where to sit

and with who.

In my last school,

my name was known.

In my last school,

my voice was loud.

In this school,

I am mute.

In this school,

I am invisible.