Nana

Should actually be called Nani—

mother of my mother.

But Owais’s first word was Nana—

father of my mother.

So Nana

Who is always giving us food

Who is always giving us clothes

Who is always giving us books

Who gives us everything really

grabbed the word

and said

mine.

Nana

Superb

is what Nana says

about my art

when I join her

in the afternoons

underneath the veranda fan

to paint, draw, sketch.

When I have a brush

in my hand

or a pencil,

my insides breathe.

But now that we’re moving,

Nana is too busy to paint, draw, sketch.

I can read her mind

through her quiet sighs,

slight wrinkles,

mouth stitched together,

so she doesn’t say too much.

Still—

Nana’s disapproval

is like charcoal on paper,

heavy and smudged.

They say children are more resilient than we think.

Nonsense.

Children are far less resilient than we think.

(Nana knows everything.)

My Grandmother Nana’s Hands

Pierced my ears

when I was a baby.

Fed me my first bites

of mushy khichri.

Now her hands stay busy

making clothes

for me before I leave.

Now her hands

buy yards of cotton cloth at the bazaar,

piping at the lace stall,

bring the cloth home,

soak the cloth in a plastic bucket,

so it doesn’t shrink, of course,

dry it in the sun, and take it to the tailor,

then phone the tailor—

Are the clothes ready yet?

Then return to the tailor to pick up the clothes,

hand the tailor crisp notes,

rewash and starch the clothes,

before finally giving them to me,

perfectly folded and ready to be packed.

Fold your dreams and pack them too

while you’re at it,

her eyes say.

With us gone,

what will her hands do now?

Blue Cocoon

Under the peach sky

under the crows cawing

under the veranda

by the garden

is the pool.

One thing

Owais and I do

no matter what

every day

is swim swim swim

in Nana and Nana Abu’s pool.

Nana Abu floats like a tree

sways side to side.

Nana bobs up and down

down and up

in her swimsuit and sari petticoat

while Owais and I

swim laps

back and forth

forth and back.

Owais’s arms and legs

have more rhythm than mine,

have more speed than mine,

he wins medal upon medal.

But still

we are the

Underwater Siblings.

Down at the bottom

of the pool floor

we are in a

a bright-blue world.

Safe

in our blue cocoon.

Can we stay here until

the clouds go to sleep?

They can’t make us move—

can they?

But we must

move

the same way

we must

come up for air.

Motia and Mehndi

Before ourlongflight,

Asna’s fat mehndi cone

swirls green farewell paisleys

and her initials and mine

intertwined

on my empty palms.

I push my new glasses up my nose

to study my new hands.

Before ourlongflight,

white fragrant motia flowers

are threaded together

in three delicate circles.

One circle of flowers