it’s late & yet so early, the sun’s
cheeks flushing into melody, bees
circling your wrists in the backyard
like summer & Thangachi touches
your forehead, rubs her chubby
hand, sticky with red popsicle & both
of you laying in dead stalks of grass,
dark hair splayed together, hot like
wildfire & your eyes are glazed &
her eyes are glazed & you tell her
a million fairytales, each one
heat-slow, knotted in honey--
once there was a princess who
married a princess & once
there were two queens & two
princesses, a bloodline of women
soft as seasilk & once there were
two moons, bodies identical
feeding each other a spoonful
of sky & once two angels swallowed
each other’s lips & Allah said okay
& she’s too little & you feel too old
& from the corner of your vision
you see two half-opened sunflowers
blooming from the cracked pavement
lining the cul-de-sac & they remind
you of Amy & nothing feels alright
but here you are & you let Thangachi pry
the stories from your hands callused
with worry & you imagine her opening
the knots into sticks of light &
you remember Amy & her hair,
soft as night, how you ran
your fingers through the strands
in the half-light, how she found
the syllables in your breath & pulled
them out one by one like fireflies
& she murmured, don’t be afraid,
both of you falling asleep, legs
tangled, bodies warm & bed too
small & when a sliver of light
touched your eyelids you prayed
for repentance, prayed to not be afraid,
prayed for Allah’s nod, her breath falling
into your neck like a memory & you
thought, this is what it means
to love & now Amma brings
out incense & it coats the wind
in grease, smoke lifting like a soft
prayer & again, you hope
for forgiveness.
cheeks flushing into melody, bees
circling your wrists in the backyard
like summer & Thangachi touches
your forehead, rubs her chubby
hand, sticky with red popsicle & both
of you laying in dead stalks of grass,
dark hair splayed together, hot like
wildfire & your eyes are glazed &
her eyes are glazed & you tell her
a million fairytales, each one
heat-slow, knotted in honey--
once there was a princess who
married a princess & once
there were two queens & two
princesses, a bloodline of women
soft as seasilk & once there were
two moons, bodies identical
feeding each other a spoonful
of sky & once two angels swallowed
each other’s lips & Allah said okay
& she’s too little & you feel too old
& from the corner of your vision
you see two half-opened sunflowers
blooming from the cracked pavement
lining the cul-de-sac & they remind
you of Amy & nothing feels alright
but here you are & you let Thangachi pry
the stories from your hands callused
with worry & you imagine her opening
the knots into sticks of light &
you remember Amy & her hair,
soft as night, how you ran
your fingers through the strands
in the half-light, how she found
the syllables in your breath & pulled
them out one by one like fireflies
& she murmured, don’t be afraid,
both of you falling asleep, legs
tangled, bodies warm & bed too
small & when a sliver of light
touched your eyelids you prayed
for repentance, prayed to not be afraid,
prayed for Allah’s nod, her breath falling
into your neck like a memory & you
thought, this is what it means
to love & now Amma brings
out incense & it coats the wind
in grease, smoke lifting like a soft
prayer & again, you hope
for forgiveness.
Sarah Fathima Mohammed is a Muslim-American emerging writer from the San Francisco Bay Area. She has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers and the National Poetry Quarterly’s Editors’ Choice Prize. When she is not writing, she serves as managing editor for The Aurora Review.