when mama asks to alter a jalabiya at the tailor’s

knot
there is a place     in the outskirts of the neighborhood
an indian tailor    next to the fawwal—
a black cat planted at his door     one abu khalid
avoids walking by     reciting quran
in fear of possessing him.     keep the money buried
in your palm so he doesn’t     raise the price
ask him about the jalabiya     & india     & home

stitch
he says home     smells like the fawwal
like the bread     & the orange peels
tucked in the corners of the concrete     but india is
the ramadan sun     the students speaking english
instead of the rough arabic     we used to be
he tells me the jalabiya     is now the size we asked
& erasure sounds so familiar

hem
my grandma is angry at the world     & my uncle talks to her about
abolition & racism &     other -isms we cannot pronounce
she nods,     adjusts her jalabiya,    cursing that if english now bears the truth
we’re damned     forever
at least there are different nouns     for every anger

snap
our loss is infinite,     he tells me
we backpacked blood & grief     & anger so red
it throbs & rips at the seams     ever since the blue-eyed
came unannounced     entering with his shoes
bringing dirt & twisted stomachs     & shrapnel onto
our carpets     rude stains with unfaltering stares

rip
i want my language back