tracing triangles

through the air.

Freestyle.

Tan muscular arms

swirling circles

through the air.

Breaststroke.

We copy her,

stretch our doubts away.

I am ready ready ready.

Diving Block

Inside my tummy

it feels like

frogs are

hop

hop

hopping.

50 Yards

I have practiced

and practiced

over and over

back and forth

this whole season

and now have the right

rhythm for freestyle

and breast stroke.

With breast stroke,

I know to keep my arms straight together,

do a frog kick,

then circle my arms.

With free style,

I know to breathe after I’ve passed the flags,

glide through the water,

streamline off the wall

to speed

efficiently through

my blue cocoon.

I pat my goggles

over my eyes,

wave to Ammi

and Baba,

nod to Owais,

squeeze Stahr’s arm,

and when the race begins

I am already in the water

in a perfect

d

i

v

e.

Final Swim Meet

Coach Kelly’s hair

is straighter than mine today

and even though I am dripping

she scoops me up

into a hug.

You did it, Nurah!

I’m so proud!

My hug makes

the tips of her hair

curl up into smiles.

And Ammi

and Baba

are looking at me,

faces light and loose and lovey

because I am in third place,

a winner

of a medal.

Owais’s Turn

The pool welcomes him,

acts like he’s never been gone,

and he swims

so beautifully

so swiftly.

Even though I’m

out of breath

from doing laps,

watching him

still takes my breath

away.

Medal

It is the perfect

amount of heavy

and hangs on the hook

on my wall

and on my heart

in my body.

Newspaper

In the city gazette

is a picture

of the team

me on the lower right

next to Stahr

holding my medal.

I

snip

snip

snip

the paper rectangle

out

carefully

to show Nana and Nana Abu

and Asna and

family back home.

I highlight my name

in yellow,

show it to Dadi.

When she asks me

my name,

I point to it

proudly.

Summer

Suitcases being zipped up,

full and fat,

when the bell rings.

Visitor

The man who is missing one arm

Mr. Tim

holds out the smell of cinnamon.

My wife b-b-b-baked cookies.

Thank you, says Owais.

My fatherextendshis hand.

Please come in.

But Mr. Tim shakes his head

and smiles,

how different he looks

with a smile on his face.

Sure fine d-d-d-daughter

you got there . . .

He waves,

and this is the first time

I notice

a wedding ring on the fourth finger

of his right hand.

Glinting in the sunlight.

Teatime

My mother delicately

nibbles Mr. Tim’s cookie,

then smiles and rests

her hands,

with the tips of her nails

bitten into

crescent moons,

onto her belly,

which is full and fat.

This time,

the baby is the size

of a mango,

my favorite fruit.

For My Mother

My father presents

a bouquet

of white flowers

so tiny

and faint

like tissue paper.

Baby’s breath, she says,