Home Is Not a Country Page 12

the banat al-nima dance school & on it a photograph

  of my mother midstep & across from her

  in the exact movement is me

  & when i pull my tin box from beneath the bed

  the one photograph remains my parents at the party

  & with it is a new one of my mother here in america

  in full color at some recent party yellow dress

  swirling bright around her head thrown back

  her mouth open midlaugh or midlyric

  arms stretched above her head

  as if in victory aisha bright & full of living

  The Kitchen

  i change into dry clothes & emerge from my room

  to see my mother in the kitchen cutting fruit a pot

  of lentils rioting on the stove i watch her quietly

  drinking her in she looks younger less tired

  less stooped around the shoulders undefeated

  she turns her head & catches me looking smiles

  holds up some tupperware & nods toward the pot

  of food i thought we’d take this to the hospital

  & have dinner with haitham’s family & the world i left

  behind begins steadily to fade as i rejoin mine

  & in my world haitham is in the hospital his body broken

  struggling to stay alive & i fight the urge to dissolve

  into tears into hopelessness over the fact

  that i’ve changed nothing that matters i clench my jaw

  to keep back the sobs & join mama in the kitchen

  to scrape the burnt bits of rice at the bottom of the pot

  haitham’s favorite into a separate container

  for when he wakes up i reply to her glance

  Haitham

  when i met you we were so small so miraculously

  unhurt unawoken by the dreams that make our mothers

  scream out at night the whole world our private joke

  the whole world a playground for our twinned brains

  your perfect heart its daily forgiveness of my uglier one

  when i met you i had a father or at least i had the dream

  of one to lull me every night to sleep

  photos to study to imagine separated only

  by the spirit world’s veil a father who would

  choose me & would have if he could have stayed

  but now i have so much more i have so much to tell you

  wake up i have so much left to say

  when i met you we were such children believing neither

  of us could ever die won’t you wake up wake up

  & believe it with me again

  Haitham

  i approach haitham’s bedside my mother busying herself

  unpacking the dishes his mother & grandmother each

  in her own gnarled sleep in a chair

  i don’t know if i’m allowed to touch him if it will hurt him

  they’ve taken the tube from his mouth & his lip

  has healed a little though his eyes stay closed

  & solemn & i can’t tell if he’s breathing i lean in

  to listen for a heartbeat for a breath

  & his voice bubbles out unchanged

  excuse me, a little personal space & i feel

  like my heart just shot up to my throat

  i straighten to look at him & his eyes

  are wide open wide awake his grin

  threatening to split his lip back open i squeal

  & laugh & burst into tears

  i’m sorry i wail & he cocks an eyebrow

  winces a little & straightens his face sorry for what?

  & 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 he looks at me

  mock-serious did you also get kicked in the head?

  then laughs his enormous laugh

  Haitham

  when i met you i was already angry so angry

  about everything i thought had been taken from me

  everything i thought i did not have so busy looking

  at my one empty hand i almost missed everything

  filling the other

  i think i spent a long time hating myself thinking

  of myself as not enough thinking i was loving

  everyone i loved by wishing a better version of myself

  into their lives one more deserving more graceful

  i think i could have been a better friend to you

  instead of locking myself away inside my head

  & invented memories locking myself away

  inside the old photographs the old songs

  & letting my whole life happen without me

  is what i want to say but all i can manage is

  i’m here now & i want to do better

  & i’m sorry & i missed you & thank you,

  thank you for waking up & haitham looks

  for a moment like he is about to make a joke

  & then miraculously doesn’t

  instead says simply nima, you’re my best friend

  but of course can’t help himself but didn’t

  the doctor tell you not to make me cry

  & i am already smothering him in a hug

  pressing tighter & marveling at him so solid

  & alive until i hear his muffled ouch

  Home Is Not a Country

  i’ve returned to my life only to find that things

  aren’t all that different i go to school & wave

  at haitham in the hallways & eat my lunch alone

  in the company of others eating their lunches alone

  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

  nima, please, enough with those awful sandwiches

  will you take this instead? it’s cheese like i know

  you like, but it’s feta & i heated some pita & there’s

  fuul & tomato in there too i can’t keep imagining

  my daughter at school eating that plastic here she

  casts a grim look at the neon slices of cheese

  in their individual sleeves & i feel a dread

  i hadn’t realized i was carrying dissolve as i imagine

  myself eating a lunch that doesn’t make me want

  to cry

  The Singer

  at the bigala my mother haggles with the shopkeeper

  seriously? for just the one leg of lamb? can you prove

  to me it descended from isaac? while i browse

  along the shelf of tapes selecting two & bringing them

  to the counter the shopkeeper barely glancing at me

  before turning probably to shout back at my mother

  but does a double take he lifts one of the cassettes

  to the light oh, i love this one & sings dreamily

  to himself in a voice like honey

  & i recognize behind the scowling face i’ve always known

  that singer from the party the looseness of his limbs

  his freedom but it already feels like something from

  a dream or an old film i watched once then lost to time

  but still i say you have a beautiful voice, uncle

  & my mother twinkl
es up at him you didn’t know?

  back home he was something of a celebrity

  & the laugh softens his grizzled face as he wraps the lamb

  up for my mother & hands it to her consider it a gift

  for the dancer & her daughter

  Nima

  & now on saturdays my mother teaches her class

  rows of girls in all our people’s sepia shades

  arranged eagerly before her in our living room

  the furniture pushed back into the corners

  as they learn all the shapes & the songs

  & the particular language of the drum

  i love to watch her teach & love it more when she calls

  me out of my room to demonstrate one thing

  or another watch nima she’ll say

  & i’ll feel the eyes warming my skin

  as i reach for the song & wrap it tightly around me

  & my body responds in its language

  Yasmeen

  we’re back in arabic class haitham’s stitches healed over

  & his cast covered in scribbled signatures

  stickers & cartoons & though it’s his left

  when the teacher brings over a quiz

  & tries to hand haitham the sheet he lifts his cast

  & announces this is my writing hand, sir

  & is excused from all work until it heals

  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 my arabic is perfect listen

  we collapse into laughter

  before he finishes the lyric

  & hear a third voice laughing with us a girl sitting

  behind haitham leans forward over her desk

  her round face is full of mischief eyes big & dark

  & already in on the joke

  her lips stretch into a smile full of large

  white teeth gilded in multicolored braces

  she smells faintly of sesame & flowers

  something about her distantly familiar

  though i can’t place it

  & as if to answer the question i haven’t yet asked

  she holds out her hand acting out a serious

  handshake hi, i’m new, my name’s jazzy

  & haitham raises an eyebrow

  that’s not arabic, is it? come on, what’s

  your passport name? & she makes a face

  everyone calls me jazzy or jazz

  except my mom when she’s mad then

  she calls me yasmeen

  Jazz

  sits between me & mama fatheya on the couch

  both of them engrossed in the same cooking show

  while haitham sits by our feet trying & failing

  to work a series of objects under his cast

  to scratch his arm during commercials

  jazzy rouses mama fatheya with her perfect arabic

  & just as i feel a strange & ancient jealousy

  unfurling in my chest

  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

  did you know our arabic teacher was in a band back home

  with a bunch of the uncles from the building? & would you

  believe they were actually good? there’s an amazing cover

  of this sayed khalifa song on here that i love

  & we are instantly kindred she unfolds

  her long legs from the couch & reaches

  for my hand & as i grab it i feel a familiar

  pressure in her grasp

  that familiar scent floral & earthy

  & echoing with something

  i know i’ve known but have forgotten

  & i blurt out not to be weird but i feel

  like i know you from somewhere

  haitham looks up from attending to his arm

  & calls out all these love songs are making you such

  a romantic to which yasmeen laughing replies

  shut up can’t you see we’re having a moment, stupid?

  & for a second her voice wrapped around the word

  is almost a memory almost a song from another life

  & when i reach for it it is gone

  as the old cassette player

  crackles out the song

  where are the beautiful ones where did they go

  Yellow

  my dreams are vivid a world of blue & sepia

  the smells of guava & smoke car exhaust & charred peanuts

  a city built around two rivers the site of their joining

  faces vaguely familiar brown skin shining with sweat

  with perfumed oil a song that never stops playing

  thick gnarl of a doum tree bright shock of bougainvillea

  eloquent stink of that faraway river

  & then i wake up pale sunlight streaming in

  & the room lights up around me photographs taped

  to the wall above my bed cassettes & cds shelved messily

  in the far corner an arabic workbook splayed

  on the floor filled with earnest cursive scrawls

  i sit up & blink away the last of the dream

  its colors retreating outside the day is unseasonably

  warm i float sleepily into the morning

  brushing my teeth splashing water

  onto my pillow-creased face the kitchen wafting warm

  & milky smells & back in my room spread

  like a ray of sunlight across the unmade bed

  is mama’s yellow dress calling to me almost

  by name i rush toward it with a squeal

  of excitement hurry out of my pajamas & slip it over

  my head & the silk shimmers around me

  like something liquid

  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 as she claps her hands oh, nima

  you were made for that color & i feel warm in the yellow

  in my belonging to her as she names me my precious girl

  my graceful one

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Even during the times when I did not know where I was from, I have always known those to whom I belong. My communities are my country, are my home, are my place in the world. This book is for them, and made possible by them, by the ways their love has held and shaped me.

  Before this book, I might have been happy to spend the rest of my life only doing the things I already knew how to do. I am grateful to Christopher Myers for the invitation to grow, for meeting me for breakfast whenever I needed to remember that the tools I already had could be used in new ways. Thank you for your friendship, and for your faith in me. Thank you to Ammi-Joan Paquette, my agent, for the phone calls, for being the first reader of the manuscript that would become this book, for taking a chance on me. Thank you to Michelle Frey, my editor, for your care, for the warmth and rigor of your eye, for sculpting this book with me.

  Every word I write is in gratitude to my many teachers, to the lateral mentorship I found among my peers, who are so unselfish with what they know, who teach me with poems and group chats and emails and long impromptu phone calls. Thank you to Elizabeth Acevedo, this book’s auntie; I am grateful for your sisterhoo
d, your generosity, and for the better worlds you’ve dreamt for us. Thank you to Clint Smith, to Team Cowork. Thank you to Team Mashallah, my siblings: Fatimah Asghar, Angel Nafis, Hanif Abdurraqib, Kaveh Akbar. Thank you to my Beotis family, to my Stegner cohort, and to the communities I’ve found at Cave Canem, Slam! at NYU, the DC Youth Slam Team, and Split This Rock. To Kamau Brathwaite, Louise Glück, Eavan Boland, Patrick Phillips, and Mark Bibbins—I am grateful for your classrooms and your considerate attention, under which I’ve watched myself blossom into newer and more infinite shapes.

  To my childhood besties, my Scorpios, my long unbroken line: Basma Rustom and Awrad Saleh. Gonna love you forever, like I’ve been doing.

  The greatest and most important honor of my life is being the daughter of Safaa El-Kogali, the sister of Almustafa Elhillo, the granddaughter of Habab Elmahdi and Eltayeb El-Kogali, a niece and a cousin to my huge and rowdy and incredible family. Thank you to my ancestors for all my names, for the stories. I hope you’ll never stop telling them to me.

  Christopher Gabriel Núñez, my love, my lifelong accomplice. Thank you for building this life with me. Thank you for the hours spent answering and re-answering all my questions about narrative, for that syllabus you made me, for being my partner in every sense, for your enormous laugh and for making breakfast. This book is one of the thousand ways you are generous. Thank you for the gift of your family. Thank you to Margarita and Fernando, to Karina and Tatiana and JP, to tías Olga and Fanny.

  To the global Sudanese community, particularly in the DMV and New York and the Bay Area: thank you for this immense siblinghood, for teaching me that a home is a thing to be made, not to be lost or found. Thank you for reminding me of the fact of my own hands. Thank you for being the funniest people on the planet, and for knowing exactly how to make me cry. I am proud to be yours and to know that my name lives among your names.

  Aris Theotokatos

  SAFIA ELHILLO is the author of the poetry collection The January Children, which received the the 2016 Sillerman First Book Prize for African Poets and a 2018 Arab American Book Award.

  Sudanese by way of Washington, DC, she holds an MFA from The New School, a Cave Canem Fellowship, and a 2018 Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Fellowship from the Poetry Foundation. Safia is a Pushcart Prize nominee, co-winner of the 2015 Brunel International African Poetry Prize, and listed in Forbes Africa's 2018 “30 Under 30.” She is a 2019-2021 Stegner Fellow at Stanford University.