Oil

I’m young & no one around

knows where my parents are from.

A map on our wall & I circle all

the places I want to be. My Auntie A,

not-blood but could be,

runs oil through my scalp.

Her fingers play the strands of my hair.

The house smells like badam.

My Uncle Fuzzy, not-blood but could be,

soaks them in a bowl of water.

My Auntie A says my people might

be Afghani. I draw a ship on the map.

I write Afghani under its hull. I count

all the oceans, blood & not-blood,

all the people I could be,

the whole map, my mirror.