Hind, or perhaps you prefer
Hanoud,
your shirt must be so pretty
if you’re afraid to respond,
lest the blood from your mouth
ruin the fabric.
Your mama must’ve raised you beautifully
if you don’t want to trouble her
with washing your blood-ridden
prayers.
That’s okay.
You don’t have to answer me
when I ask
what do you want to be
when you grow
out of your shirt
and into the genocide?
I mean,
after life
outside this car
perforated with 355 bullet holes
a starry sky punctured into the passenger door
a hundred gateways to heaven
bursting right next to your seatbelt.
Your cousin Lina is already waiting for you
and cousin Sarah, and Aunty, and Uncle,
and now Youssef and Ahmed in their red crescent van crumpled like post-lunch tinfoil
Hanoud, you’re onto me
if you can differentiate
between the sleeping and the dead
no matter how I try to convince you
the developmental milestones for a five year old do not include-
you’re so clever, you
graduate of the butterfly class
can you tell that I’m stalling?
we’ve all been talking for so long
that we’re so close…
Hind, Hanoud! Forgive me.
Don’t count the bullet holes
or the seconds
but the stitches
in your shirt.
That’s how many times
you made your mother smile.
That’s how many times
we have thought of you.
Hanoud, what if I told you that there are buildings
that don’t get bombed?
That four months from now
there will be a university hall
with Hind on the facade
and the world will stream a Macklemore song
called Hind’s Hall
and Hind will envelop the Oscars.
I know—when children answer
what do you want to be?
with famous
this is not what they had in mind.
So Hanoud, don’t worry about me,
or Macklemore, or the Oscars.
Here is your mother.
Can you hear her when she asks,
Shall we recite the Quran together?
