my kin, my ripe bushel of apples,
orcharding, my wealth:  Neelo
with the round face & always on
some kind of exercise routine.  Lubnah
name dripping silk, honey, a fat drop
of yogurt & blueberry.  Lubnah  who i haven’t
seen in years but then looks up at me
from the photo in my baby album,  Khudejha,
who left me when i told my truth, who i knew
my words landed on like a knife, though
i did all i could to cut with flowers, bouquet
after bouquet.  Ruquia,  who i left & missed
with each footstep, would wake in the night
confused, calling her name. the years makes
long our distance, when i see her again
we’re strangers, talking about the people
in our lives like they’re characters in a tv show.
our worlds, fiction to each other, the raging
ocean between us, a murder of marine
life. cut me open & there they are: the ones
who left me, the ones i left, the roots
that ground me, the wind combing
my hair. &  Mamun,  who scared
me across the country for a decade, scattered
me like a seed. i still dream of the world
where i could’ve been his daughter. my ripe.
my beautiful apple. i still dream
of the world where he calls & i answer.