I pressed my nose upon my mother’s sleeve, the incense

nestled within it, both welcoming and overwhelming. Her hair whips thin,

their curls like cresting waves crashing upon themselves.

I see the ocean in her hair. If only I could know of her artist’s paintbrush,

whose colors boasted on her skin a starry olive and brown.

And she wore, effortlessly, this gown of linen black and pebbles red—

the thobe of blood-red geometry from whom Bedouin carpets

found their purest inspiration. The same thobe worn by her mother

on a wedding day, Bahrain 1965. The same thobe buried deep

in the trunk of a fleeting truck, Kuwait 1991. The same thobe

that with us made our journey, me and my family’s, America 2002.

So, this I would come to regret: that I would ask why she wore that same thobe

to a dinner whose guests could barely pronounce my name…

So you won’t forget, ya habibi. So you won’t forget from where you came.

And I watched my father sifting through that embroidered chest

where scents of history had left their mark, where to them the smell

of rosewood conceded. He took that checkered cloth of black

and white—the keffiyeh—and upon me he donned this linen political.

And he wrapped this garment around my head—my face emerging

from the broken folds, just as my grandfather’s, Jerusalem 1932.

And I drew my head to the mirror, where in my reflection I saw that

iconic Che, whose face hung in my father’s bedroom, Beirut 1978.

So, this I would come to regret: that I wondered why I should wear this to school, 

where they would shout insults at me. Where Omar bin Laden,

al-Qaeda, Talibandit, camel-jockey, and raghead became my name.

So you won’t forget, ya habibi. So you won’t forget from where you came.

And Home was never quite there in the static suburbs of Cincinnati,

nor was it ever fully found in the limestone house whose dust

was relentless in Amman. But it remained resiliently

in any living room, al-sufra, where Baba sat with his stomach

exposed and Mama and Fouad drew in deep breaths

of effervescent smoke from that golden tobacco vase

as they snuggled beneath that defiant map of ancient Palestine. 

And Palestine always was resiliently in that living room,

where the newscaster blasted Arabic roils, where the voicemail sang

with the charming voice of Karmah, where the olive sapling 

rises, whose roots hug deeply the soil. 

And all our faiths trying,

we knew life was never to be the same.

But still we would not forget what we had there,

nor from where we came.