& you, at the center, finding something real:

your Auntie, a play-mom, the child she lost forgotten

your parents laughing together on their underground date.

Hand-sewn kupre each Eid, velvet scrunchies to match.

Your best friend’s Bulgarian mom, thermometer

when you didn’t have one. Your Uncle Fuzzy’s Urdu, balm

salam to every friend who came through the door

fingers in the cheese, fresh roti sizzling the pan, onions & jam.

How their families put aside a special plate, no pork,

just for you. Marilyn’s Auntie Debbie asking after you

when she called. The America that found you alone

& opened. The doors, the windows, the strangers turned to mud

& then sprung, again, quakes stilled, cracks filled

this kindness, this hope, which kept you alive & fighting.