& when i reach for the memory of our argument it’s like
trying to remember a dream like trying to carry water
in a cupped palm all of it trickling slowly away i...
you...i...i can't really remember
i blurt out sheepish
very sad, especially involving grief or death or destruction
though this morning while i make yet another
tragic sandwich my mother appears her face
determined & sets something neatly wrapped
in paper towels on the counter before me
when the teacher turns i shove him in his
good shoulder liar you’re never going to learn
any arabic & he looks over face contorted
in pretend heartbreak
she turns to me & grins i hear you're some kind
of nostalgia monster so i come bearing an offering
& from the pocket of her jacket she extracts
an unlabeled tape
i turn to the mirror & twirl like the girl in the photograph
like aisha before me & midspin i catch her standing
in the doorway the beautiful girl who became my mother
her face buoyant & alive
Created on Wed Oct 06 10:25:00 EDT 2021
(updated Wed Oct 13 10:35:35 EDT 2021)
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