On the Uber ride home, I remember 

to scrape Arab from the tip of my tongue

just in time when the driver asks about the origins

of my name. Tunisian, I say. North Africa.

He nods, the whole continent floating black 

and indistinguishable in his fenced imagination. 

I have always depended on the ignorance 

of strangers. More so tonight when the headlines 

I saw last week are still blinking red and blue

in a corner of my brain: Victims reportedly were wearing 

the Palestinian keffiyeh and speaking in Arabic

 when they were attacked. I never read the full article.

If there’s more to the story, it only reassures 

the hunters, not the prey. Before coming to this country, 

I read about the cab driver killed for having 

a Muslim name, and I still came armed 

with a set of disappearing acts—skin light 

enough to pass. Unplaceable accent. My name

withheld whenever I sniff a bait. Tomorrow,

this fear, too, will be filed under Discreet lest

someone rattles the trap that keeps me here or asks 

about the distant shape of my American dream. 

The heart forgets, and in forgetting, it stays in place.

Denied Entry to Singapore

We’re sorry to inform you that your visa application 

was rejected. Consider this a bureaucratic take

-down-a-notch. Don’t kid yourself about the cost

of stamps. Six years in America and two 

graduate degrees don’t make you less third

world, less needy, less likely to crawl like a rat  

through clandestine tunnels. Just because we need to pick

your brother’s brain doesn’t mean we should heed the call 

of his blood, that your jungle-green veins 

can branch out long enough to climb over 

border walls. Feel free to plant a petition inside

the dimples on your niece’s baby cheeks, but all 

pictures will be plucked out like foreign weeds 

or like the petals of a forget-me-not darling, please.

Texas Winters

Everything is bigger in Texas, even the borders

          of my loneliness. This night, too, my candlestick

fingers are as luminous as the full moon glazing 

          the handrail’s cold metal. Only this time, I don’t

wonder about the shape of sadness splayed 

          on the freshly mowed lawn. I once rated 

my suicidal thoughts one on a scale from never to 

          all the fucking time, and the nurse 

practitioner showered my palms with brochures. 

          We laughed when I told you about it later. 

How I only meant it in a conceptual way. Only it wasn’t 

          funny at all, my cries for help always dipped 

in honey and wrapped in sour jokes. Back then, I mistook 

          every free drink for an invitation to string 

the hours of the night with a pink thread. Every bar 

          counter a gateway to intimacy. Where do 

the displaced go to find permanence? Would you have

          believed me if I told you I didn’t choose 

to want this place? That some silences are stretched

          too paper-thin to make the air squirm. It took

me years to topple the shrine I built for blue eyes. The homes

          I tethered to tourist hearts. Now I know 

the shades of brown that get the blood going. The exact

          hour of the night when it stops.