We are all rugged people,
and through out soft degrees.
Many a mean have shouted,
Many have fallen too their knees.
We think we’re at war with others,
But wrong because we are at war
with ourselves,
A war that has long begun

I hate diaspora poetry
as much as the next
fed-up immigrant

All that bullshit
about “lives stained
with honey and turmeric”
and “the colonizer
cutting my tongue with
aluminum shears”
is utterly boring

When I needed a white sheet for Toga day at school, my father immediately gave me his own white cloth. The weave was loose and rough, with a smooth strip of gold running down one side, so large I thought it was a sari.

Last week I found my friend’s fake ID’s
One form Towson, Maryland, where she is 23
One form an address in Scottsdale, Arizona
Each card different, each with a new persona

50% Polish, 50% Russian 
I thought.
It all changed in Rehovot.
I flipped through the book.
The dining table crowded with voices.
“Tracing our roots” He said
Turning the page.
The faces of those like me 
gazed up from the page.

Pakistan and America 
Eastern and western
but they feel like the north and south poles
I’m immersed in the red silk dresses embroidered by hand and I’m in love with the ability to roam alone across this land

Two mirrors face each other, a girl in between.
The girl is me, stuck on the cliche of the introvert; on the outside looking in.
My problem is that I've always been on the inside looking out.

Out there…
During the day, around everyone…
I can be the funniest guy ever,
a person that don’t care about nothing,
someone confident about himself,
and that won’t let nobody make him feel less.
But once inside…

Your foundation is no different than that of your neighbors,
    ground firmly into the cool of the Earth with no concern
    for those who dwell above you.
Your walls beg to tell a different story, desperate for language