Category Poetry

My mother still beads adhans into a rosary at the minaret

The wavelength of red.
The lineage of honeycrisp

I want a crown of daisies
& seeds of joy that will Insha Allah
become flowers on my grave

Summer in the 90's meant the word schizophrenia did not exist inside my mother

float inside you, fondle your hear

the sand squishes up between 

my toes like brown sugar

I remember that Halmoni was the first person to call me a bitch.

It is the aperture that we cling to,
an exit that implies a return.

i will peel the orange for you
and in the moment you hold
the piece in your mouth

i wish to be burnt alive
by what i love.