TWO
Malak Ahmed I have two homes, two faces, two feet Which I use to walk from one zone to another. I tear a line of caution tape, walking through it, Holding my breath, Praying that no one will notice my stutter. I have two homes, two faces, two feet Which I use to walk into a store, Where on aisle seven, I’m invited to buy a frozen ounce of home. “Authentic,” it says, and with a grimace, my father says, “Ignore.” I have two homes, two faces, two feet Enveloped in Adidas superstars, Which were once, a few months ago, coated with Cairo sand, Now used to amble across a floor of privilege, Alongside a brain burdened with a qarar. To be or not to be Egyptian American A choice of Okra stew Or mac ‘n cheese I have two homes, two faces, two feet, At home, six faces to feed. To face what you expect of me. To hone my face and greet The look you give my family While we cross the street. I have two faces, one you don’t see. I have two of each. Two homes, Two faces, Two tears, Two eyes To watch You break our tie, The one we never had. Two parents To confide in But who do they have, By their side? Two homes, Two faces, Two tears. Two months, To forget My fears. Two homes. Two faces. Two feet.
Mirage 2021
17
