in the dry Junes of Karachi I don a white cotton shalwar
kameez (a moonlighter), so become my afternoon &
my night & douse this blackness in viscous castor oil which
mama’ll vigorously knead—the stickiness against a white
skull with fingers made stiff from years of rheumatoid arthritis.
Is this the inexplicable south asian love? because in the
West I only want the scent of mamas janemaaz ka dupatta &
I’m sorry for frantically clinging to Pakistan wherever i
go making it hard for your homes to welcome me & for you
foreign lovers to embrace me & I’m sorry that I can’t
help friending you on Facebook just to show how great my
life’s gotten since high school & not just the published
poems & the articles & the acting but the little things. like when
Asiya’ll welcome my return, thousand lines criss-crossing
tanned skin & I’m 11 years old again. how is it that people who’ve
had husbands murdered by village mobs can find happiness
in life whereas I, who’ve lived a near painless life cannot? but at least
my evenings are marked with daddy’s Jimmy Choo’s cologne
and brylcreem which you smell before seeing him & everyone knows
that I’ll do anything to impress my dad like even burning myself
out to the point of depression, so that’s why Allah beckons me to the
prayer mat & I’m sorry for inconveniencing you white peeps but
just know, not all Muslims are terrorists & do you even really know Islam
and the great solace it gives us. I know my mom would want me to
pray. this is the fifth time she’s pinged me—empty nest syndrome has hit
hard but darling, any second now you’ll get a semblance of home,
so don’t hurt yourself just yet.