From “Oil”

We got sent home early

& no one knew why. I think we

are at war! I yelled to my sister

knapsacks ringing

against our backs. I copy

-catted from Frances

who whispered it when the teachers

got silent. Can’t blame

me for taking a good idea.

I collect words where I find them.

I’m young & no one around

knows where my parents are from.

A map on our wall & I circle all

the places I want to be. My auntie,

not-blood but could be,

runs the oil through my scalp.

Her fingers play the strands of my hair.

The house smells like badam.

My uncle, not-blood but could be,

soaks them in a bowl of water.

My auntie says my people might

be Afghani. I draw a ship on the map.

I write Afghani under its hull. I count

all the oceans, blood & not-blood,

all the people I could be,

the whole map, my mirror.

The kids at school ask me where I’m from & I have no answer.

I’m a silent girl, a rig ready to blow. The towers fell two weeks

ago & I can’t say blow out loud or everyone will hate me.

They all make English their own, say that’s the bomb.

I know that word’s not meant for me but I collect words

where I find them. I practice at night, the crater

it makes of my mouth. I whisper it to my sheets,

bombbombbombbombbombbombbombbombbombbombbombbombbomb

a little symphony, so round. I look up & make sure no one heard.