Love Is Not Always Song, but the Swelling
in the throat before a cry. It is my father,
changing his god because my mother asked.
After the baptism, his curly hair wet and
cold like an animal caught out in the snow.
Fleeing from my grandmother, who rushed
after him with butcher knives not yet wiped clean
of pigeon meat, the untucked bits of herhijab licking the air behind her like a shadow.
You need to go back to Egypt, she had said.
Sometimes, home is not a home, but a claw
lodged inside you.