after 9/11 / cold silver stretches / across a slate gray table / a room tucked in an airport terminal / you’ve never heard of.
August 17, 2021
each owned by a man.
each named Mohammed.
dark blue clothing. FBI badges. glint of steel
they knock and my father never opens the door.
the door opens. and
a shrew thrown overboard its fur
he squeaks. the plastic couch.
sunken I am not allowed in the living room
the coffee table scuffs
its varnish peels
poop floats up the fish tank.
cold silver stretches
across a slate gray table
a room tucked in an airport terminal
you’ve never heard of. I arrive
my brother’s luggage already inside out. still,
I scrape. the skin. my thumb.
you look just like your mother
a red-bowed ribbon, zip-up sweater, Hello Kitty toothbrush
my mother’s 노리개,
elastic tethered to two puffs-
and the men
let me go