And mean it; a screech of joy
so sharp make a كافر bow.

Here, the mangled text that will
become a poem — loose language —

blueprint for a reckoning.
Fuck a philology. Joy

is the imperfect sentence.
Syntax gone wrong and proudly:

burned dish I eat anyway,
smiling. I say: الحمد لله and

mean it, just as much. I have
always wanted to grow up

to be wind; impermanent,
yet ever-present – paired with

a sunset to die for. The
right gust at the right time was

all Mama ever needed
to see a sign from God. What

is winter to the breeze? A
flood to the sea? Once, I was

but a drop in still water,
and I have made my peace with

that. What is more احا than this
moment? I make Naguib قهوة,

darker than earth, and it lasts
the whole day. He reads my cup,

says he sees great احا in my
future. I say: I have kept

the احا safe under my
tongue where no uninvited

hand may snatch it at night. This
is how we’ve survived.