for Dima
We are the children of bombs
of broken glass
& shrapnel shadows
My mother
records her first memory
Japanese porcelain dolls
arranged like soldiers in kimonos
torpedo to the tatami mat
shatter like bullet shells
as American B-29s
carpet bomb
Tokyo
My father
a teenager
soaks his scabrous hands
in puddles of family rice fields
near Hiroshima
as he beholds
a behemoth ball of fire
mushroom the blue sky
into a bloodthirsty orange
so blistering
the shadows of the obliterated
remain
Your mother
a refugee
runs through Lebanon ‘s checkpoints
dodges deafening howitzers
ducks the spray of shells
determined not to leave
her daughters
hobbling orphans
nursing bullet wounds
from booby-trapped dolls
in a never-ending war
Your father
grabs his daughters
& bolts from Beirut
barely a day
before a fusillade of phosphorous bombs
napalm / vacuum bombs
& a platoon of Israeli tanks level
every building
every crib
in the cradle of Arab culture
From opposite ends of this planet
across the Atlantic
across the Pacific
your father / my father
your mother / my mother
move
to America
travel over waters
as vast as the continent
between the fertile crescent
& the land of the rising sun
Our parents never exercise
their right to return
but they remember
the water
the warmth
the night sky of their homes
as your parents name you
summer rain / crescent moon
& my parents choose the characters
the purity of the light on the river delta
They carry
their suitcases
packed with dreams
bruised from bombs
broken glass
& shrapnel shadows
to California
where we find each other
But in this land
I can’t distinguish between
Arabic script
& the scrawls of your hair
stuck on your shower tiles
You can’t distinguish between
Japanese characters
& the calligraphy of our interwoven fingers
So our relatives wonder
whether we
Arab woman / Asian man
match
or will make it
wonder
whether we will collide
the way Arabic reads right to left
then top to bottom
while kanji slides top to bottom
then right to left
In this country
they can only picture
a baby born
50% Lebanese
50% Japanese
add up to
100% internment material
& the more
our marriage seems imminent
the more our communities imagine
hijabis spread wasabi
kamikazes don kuffiyehs
Buddha meditates with Muhammad
comment
that they never seen
bamboo root in Beirut
authentic Tokyo tabouli
never heard
or kibbeh for Kodomo no Hi
of ramen in Ramadan
But if anyone dares to wonder
whether we will clash
like tablahs & taikos
sake & Turkish coffee
or hummous hand rolls
We know
our love is sturdy
like our parents’ suitcases
Our love is glorious
as the grape leaves
your grandmother folds like origami
as ornate
as the origami
my grandmother tucks like grape leaves
Our love is deep as haiku
intricate as a qasida
Our love is the crescent moon
illuminating the river delta
tickled by the summer rain
Our love is the dream
our immigrant parents
prayed for
the tarmac their prayer rug
their passports the prayer beads
But we do not forget
we are the children of bombs
of broken glass
& shrapnel shadows
We do not ignore
our home is the country
that dropped the bombs
that sprayed the shrapnel
that broke the glass
on our parents’ backs
We do not play dumb
when we pay taxes
that fund another generation
of children born
under bombs
We remember
what we must remember
But we forget
what our parents wish us to forget
Whenever debris descends from the sky
I only think of your eyelash
precipitating towards my pillow
or ripples in a river
from a summer rain
When you see sharp edges of broken glass
you only recall the prickly ends
of a crescent moon
or your nails
clawing my back
When we see an orange-colored sky
it only reminds us
of the blossom water
flavoring our Lebanese breakfast
the salmon roe sprinkled on our lunch
or the sunset before dinner
You and I
tangle our roots
proud
in the soil of these shores
knowing
our parents will finally unpack
their suitcases
when our children
take shelter
in our arms
the way
I find shelter
in yours
