From “Oil”

We got sent home early & no one knew why.I think we are at war! I yelled to my sister knapsacks ringing against our backs. I copy -catted from Frances who whispered it when the teachers got silent. Can’t blame me for taking a good idea. I collect words where I find them. 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, not-blood but could be, runs the oil through my scalp. Her fingers play the strands of my hair. The house smells like badam. My uncle, not-blood but could be, soaks them in a bowl of water. My auntie 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. The kids at school ask me where I’m from & I have no answer. I’m a silent girl, a rig ready to blow. The towers fell two weeks ago & I can’t say blow out loud or everyone will hate me. They all make English their own, say that’s the bomb. I know that word’s not meant for me but I collect words where I find them. I practice at night, the crater it makes of my mouth. I whisper it to my sheets, bombbombbombbombbombbombbombbombbombbombbombbombbomb a little symphony, so round. I look up & make sure no one heard.