within the throat ahead of a cry. It’s my father,
converting his god as a result of my mom requested.
After the baptism, his curly hair rainy and
chilly like an animal stuck out within the snow.
Fleeing from my grandmother, who rushed
after him with butcher knives now not but cleaned
of pigeon meat, the untucked bits of her
hijab licking the air in the back of her like a shadow.
You wish to have to return to Egypt, she had stated.
Once in a while, house isn’t a house, however a claw
lodged within you. A river you step into as a result of
it holds mild. You’re waist deep, wading
in what mauls you and in addition
what loves you. You permit house and turn into
riptide. What I’ve turn into has beheaded
what I used to be ahead of. I raise the top, knocked
unfastened and bodiless, as I might a plum,
cautious to not overwhelm it in my palm, cautious
to not gag its cry.