picks and flicks

chipped rosy polish,

the color of my gums,

while we are supposed to

be solving for x, a, and b.

But I am counting

hours,

minutes,

seconds.

How many seconds do I have

if I leave in 53 days?

Swift pencil marks

On paper

Calculate

53 days × 24 hours × 60 minutes × 60 seconds

= 4,579,200 seconds.

I like math

because there’s always one answer.

6 + 7 will always = 13 (my age).

I like math

because numbers don’t change their minds.

I wish Baba

wasn’t like a number right now.

I wish Baba

would change his mind

and let us stay.

My Family’s Outsides

Me

I have a bump

on my nose—

the doctor calls it

a deviated septum.

My nose is always stuffy,

and a little crooked,

and even though I don’t want people

to notice my nose,

it is always making noise,

so it gets noticed anyway,

especially when it gets

extra stuffy

after I go for a swim,

which is my favorite thing,

ever,

which is every day.

My eyebrows are not

inverted delicate Vs like my father’s

but straight bushy lines

like my mother’s.

My face is practical,

too practical,

but it envies my hair,

a black mirror

that in the brightest sunlight

turns brown.

My hair is always smooth and silky,

it makes friends easily

with my fingers

and the comb.

If I choose to cover my hair,

like my mother,

what will my face envy?

My Big Brother

Owais, who is 2 years and 2 days

older than me,

732 days to be exact,

doesn’t want to move either.

His eyebrows hug each other

as he pushes dal and rice

around his plate,

around and around.

Instead of packing,

he visits the swimming pool.

Diving deep

into the water,

over and over again.

Instead of packing,

he visits the tennis courts,

slicing the ball

easily over the net.

He slices the ball so hard

and so far

away,

that when the ball finally

hits the net,

he sinks to his knees

and doesn’t have the energy

to get up.

Ammi: My Mother

Original owner of the thick bushy eyebrows.

My mother’s brows are straight lines

like Owais and me.

If you were to pour tea,

and add a little milk,

and count 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,

that would be the color of

my skin.

If you were to pour tea,

and add milk,

you would need to pour,

pour,

pour,

and

count 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

until the color of

my mother’s skin.

My mother, Ammi, is prettier than me.

I know it in the way she lingers

at the mirror

and I don’t.

Her delicate features

boast at more beauty

while mine

have already

accepted

who

they

are.

But there is one thing of mine

that is better than hers.

Her hair knots easily,

and mine never does.

Her smile doesn’t

reach all the way

to her eyes

when she tries to sell us America.