I really don’t want

to call more attention

to us.

Why can’t I just

blend,

like everyone else?

Why can’t I just

blend,

like Stahr?

Amphibian

In water

I want to stand out.

But on land

I want to blend in.

On the Way Home

What a friendly child

your friend Stahr . . .

what nice parents too . . . ,

Baba and Ammi remark

and I hate

how anger

pools inside of

me.

To make them stop,

Her dad hits her, I say

and my mother’s face is sad again.

Swim Team

My mother’s face

My father’s face

My brother’s face

My face

are happy today

because we both made the team.

(Stahr too!)

In a red booth

we sprinkle pizza with red pepper.

In a red booth

my mother wears red lipstick.

In a red booth

the cheese melts long and liquid—

into joy.

Part Four

My Mother’s Belly

The belly of my mother is

mostly flat

but inside it

there is a secret.

The secret

is the size

of a raspberry.

I am expecting a baby,

she says, her voice full of

hesitation,

but underneath the hesitation,

I hear hope.

I finally feel

light

like the meaning

of my name.

Back Home

Asna has a baby sister

whose hair smells like Cocoa Puffs

and when I held

the baby,

I knew

how to

curl my mouth

into

a sh-sh-sh-sh.

I knew

how to

bend my knees

up-down-up-down.

My body will remember

again.

Doubts

But later,

when I’m alone,

I wonder and wonder and wonder

and the wondering makes

me feel heavy and heavy and heavy

all over again.

Before Bed

Did we move to

America

just so you could have babies

who are American citizens?

Is that why we are here?

The question slips out

much louder than I meant it to

and I can taste the salty anger

on my tongue.

My mother looks up

while she braids

her hair with one hand—

twirl bend loop.

Her face tired,

so tired

that I feel sorry—

I wish I could iron

her wrinkles away.

My Father’s Answer

No

No

No

No

That is not the reason

that we are here.

We are here because of

job security,

the schools are better,

more opportunities.

Don’t you like it here?

Anger

When I was little

and I lost swimming races

against Owais,

I would cry tears

shaped like secrets,

salt mixed with chlorine

behind my goggles.

I would throw my towel

call him names

churning the sadness

into anger.

Because isn’t it easier

to be angry

than sad?

Swimming

The next day,

sunlight

brings

me

hope.

At times, I don’t

understand the moods

of my heart.

But today

is easy.

Owais and I dive

high from the board

deep into the pool.

Everyone swims

(Baba too!),

except our mother,

whose face is

yellowy and who

doesn’t like the smell of chicken

or spices

(or anything really)

so we pick up fish fillets