Home is where your umbilical cord is buried.
Wrapped in gauze sprinkled with rose attar,
mine was buried nine steps from a lime tree at dusk.
I am first born named Star.
I am born blue and breathless named Twilight.
The first word I hear
is the name of God.
As torches of spirits illuminate the land
named Sharpness of Knives and Careless Thief,
a martyred aunt buries my umbilical cord.
You do not know her,
the nameless daughter after five sisters named Moon.
I am first born named Star.
Pomegranates offer themselves
like rubies from the trees,
silk scarves hang from branches
softening the sun and smell like mother.
I peel and devour daylight jinns
who hunt babies
as if they were pink and white fruits.
I am blue and breathless named Twilight.
My navel smells of rose.
The first word whispered into my ears
is the name of God.
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