each bodega.

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

sopping

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.

after 9/11

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,

they rummage.

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