Two Poems

---

March Snow

I forgot what I wanted until it bloomed in your backseat.
I'm holding it by the edges, the only way I've learned to touch the world.
Evening airplanes pour purple onto our faces, but I don't look for too long,
because it could make them crash. 

We buy gas station souvenirs and piss at truck stops.
The sun shines through your lashes, and orange is the car.
This weekend, you plan on smoking one after the other.
And you've already started, wrist kissing the window, March snow in your lap. 

Being a ghost for two years was easy,
but now I'm curling by the sandwich wrappers like a dog.
Dreaming leg twitching, calling this lovein my head like a dog. 

We turn off the song that's been playing since lunch.
We drag our bags upstairs and pick where we'll be sleeping
and where I'll be sitting next to your shivering body with a bucket and wine blue teeth. 

On Sunday, we roll down a hill like children.
We have barely eaten for three days.
The main joke is that it doesn't feel like leaving.

But then I'm sitting behind the wheel,
so that my hands won't look as empty and embarrassing,
and we're driving towards the hunger hum fluttering on the other side of the night. 

Today I felt a sudden urge: 

I want to be a summer kid,
swallowed by the insect song.
Baba hand strong 'round
my summer kid neck.
Sun burn, sun cap.
Limbs glowing red.
 

Drinking car smells
and airport sounds,
sharbat at aunty's house.
Prayers rolling down brown hills,
pressing through the screens,
waking me at dawn.

I run through the park
with long black leg hairs,
lie in a fat piece of light,
and listen to the blood
around my ear as it dries. 

I think when I go back to school
I'll tell everyone
that I'm a little Muslim,
and that God loves me. 

I write suicide notes in my diary,   
but I haven't yelled at Momon yet
for trying to make me eat.
It's how I know
I'm still a summer kid;
something ugly and
asleep.