Here’s your cousin, in her best gold-threaded shalwaar
kameez, made small by this land of American men.
Every day she prays. Rolls attah. Pounds the keema,
at night watches the bodies of these glistening men.
Big & muscular, neck full of veins, bulging in the pen.
Her eyes kajaled, wide, glued to sweaty American men.
She smiles guilty as a bride without blood, her love
of this new country, cold snow & naked American men.
“Stop living in a soap opera” yells her husband, fresh
from work, demanding his dinner: American. Men
take & take & yet you idolize them still, watch
your cousin as she builds her silent altar to them—
her knees fold on the rundown mattress, a prayer to the pen
Her tasbeeh & TV: the only things she puts before her husband.
She covers bruises & never lets us eat leftovers: a good wife.
It’s something in their nature: what America does to men.
They can’t touch anyone without teeth & spit
unless one strips the other of their human skin.
Now that you’re older she calls to say he hit
her again. This didn’t happen before he became American.
Even now, you don’t get it. But whenever it’s on you watch
them snarl like mad dogs in a cage—these American men.
You know its true & try to help, but what can you do?
You, Fatimah, who still worships him?