some days you miss
the dusty, littered streets
of your home, houses
hung from the yellowed
sky, loud boom
of the athan five times
a day. despite being
a temporary visitor, with
fingers clutching suitcases,
toes steeped in American
soil, someone always reminds
you of that makeshift hospital
on Queen Rania Street
where you were born. some
days you want to drown
in your grandmother’s black
abaya. love resides in arms
so you learned how to
walk that shattered concrete,
smoke smooth mint hookah,
dip pita bread into
zaat then zaatar, lay on rooftop
patios, haggle in crowded
bazaars, speak Arabic, hear
your name, noor ― as in light ―
spoken with a rolled r, spoken
like it should be.
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