Language

Pakistan is said like: Pack-is-stan

Muslim is said like: Muzz-lim.

Water is said like: Wah-der.

All wrong.

Pakistan is supposed to be “Pah-kiss-tahn.”

In “Muslim,” the u is supposed to be like oo in book,

the s a soft and gentle pout—

not a hard z

buzzing back at you.

Which Land Is Mine?

In Peachtree City, Georgia,

the trees touch the sky

and the air smells different.

The water tastes different too.

The wind is pure

and free

from exhaust.

Yet the sidewalks are empty.

The roads have only cars.

In Karachi, Pakistan,

the trees are shorter

like me.

The air has whiffs of exhaust

and mango juice is plentiful.

Rickshaws sputter on the roads.

A donkey here or there.

Scooters everywhere.

Sellers of every kind

selling

coconuts

birds in cages

balloons

towels.

They all

gather on the road.

Different melodies

all at once.

Even though their lives

are hard,

they seem free.

Yet America with

its pure air

and people stuck inside

all day

is known as

the land of the free.

Pakistan with

its free people everywhere

and dirty air

is known as

the land of the pure.

Hotel

We are in a hotel

and our bags are

sticking their tongues out

at us

half opened

spilling their contents out

just so.

Our room is ugly

with small windows

the color of spit

and Owais and I are

restless, trapped

even though it is sunny out.

Go get your Quran.

Let’s read Surah Al-Kahf.

Ammi’s voice is

too floaty,

too cheerful.

Owais’s eyebrows hug.

His face is light enough to turn red.

Whoever reads Surah Al-Kahf

on Friday will have a light that shines

from one Friday to the next.

Go get it now,

commands Ammi.

You can’t make me.

Her voice

is fragile poison.

What did you say?

I want to tell Owais

don’t say anything.

Just sit down with me,

open your Quran,

and read Surah Al-Kahf,

the way we always did on Fridays.

The melodious words

of peace

rolling off

our

tongues.

Instead,

his voice is

dangerously quiet.

You can’t make me.

Ammi raises

her palm

while I wait for the

stinging sound

of

skin to skin.

The hot slap.

You know,

here in America,

I can call the cops

and DFCS can take you away?

He walks to the door.

Tears pinch my nose tight.

I who never cry

in front of anyone,

never ever

find that my face

is wet.

Little

When we were little

and Ammi would tell us

to go pray,

we would listen.

But when we would put our foreheads

on the ground,

instead of praying,

we would look at each other

and whisper secrets.

Now,

I look at my brother,

and I don’t know who he is,

or what his secrets are.

Stop

They both look at me,

surprised.

My tears

surprise me most.

I cover my face,

hoping the embarrassment

evaporates.

Relieved that their voices are

mute.

Owais, who was

on his way out,

stops

turns