I set my glass bottle of fermented organisms on the counter.
the deli owner looked down,
you smell like the girls in my culture

if I burn Frankincense and Myrrh
I remind men of their women

you pointed out that I had no culture
you sketched me in a hijab

you drank, breaking pillars on a Tuesday
What do you call me in Urdu? Bird.

Who is your god? Money power respect, you laugh. 

you used my flight benefits to go to Tennessee
the blond girl you are fucking has a draw

When required to pray 5 times a day, 
all of life is a reminder that you            aren't

I got myself changed in Arabic and Urdu, 
A forethought in another tongue. Why is your prayer on me?

It actually didn’t matter, the conflicts playing out over there, the warring sects, our competing notions about god and love, we were both people of the book. You said when you died, you wanted to be buried in your mom’s heart. You said you eat halal because the slaughtering is up to par. You said you never wanted to hurt me. But a wanting is less than a prayer. You have to know that when you slept I prayed to a faceless god with many arms and she lifted you in glass and turned you over and back again, your pain a fermentation.