Editor: Samantha Weiner

Designer: Diane Shaw

Production Manager: Rebecca Westall

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018958841

ISBN: 978-1-4197-3756-5

eISBN: 978-1-68335-680-6

Text © 2019 Fariha Róisín

Illustrations © 2019 Monica Ramos

Cover © 2019 Abrams

This page: Excerpted lyrics from “Green Green Grass of Home,” text and music by Curly Putman

This page: Portions of “1971” previously appeared in Hazlitt

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for ammu and abbu

Her dark purdah glance
is strong and still as rock

ELIZABETH HARDWICK

Could it be that those who see
things more clearly are also those
who feel and suffer the most?

CLARICE LISPECTOR

i built myself up,

like a layer of bricks, i lifted.

a marionette, sheltered by the hands of god

i rose to the awakened sky,

rising like the dunes,

the sands’ yellow shadow.

building a home for myself

i spun gold into linen

into safety

where i could breathe

without                 you

for the first time.

i crouched towards

the punishing hunger inside

& slowly     i let them pass,

past the mountainous

shape of my tongue.

coming up opposite

way it went down,

shoving my misery

to the dull corners

of my boredom

i pulled myself up

and out to become

the glory

i am now.

strengthening myself like iron,

carbon steel, forcing myself to

face the glistening cracks.

hollow, singing along

to a mother’s slap,

the lines on my face

breaking,

ugly in a frown.

instead i bite the

bitter gotu kola,

nutty like a pistachio,

sipping a Gamay as respite,

facing the ugly,

crying through faded

eyelashes, mascara stains

running indigo

streaks down the

balls of my cheeks,

licking royalty into my blood.

like bright satin lacquer on

the floor

smiling, unconvinced,

i said, baby you gotta live!

that day i did not die.

leaves blistering out in the sun

like fall at its most supreme,

that one day          i chose life,

my skin surfaced with crusty sores

i said to them: so what?

i am bigger than

this pain, a

vortex of every

narrative i’ve

screamed together

to have purpose,

frequency.

nobody chose it for me, this life.

least of all my mother

and before me,

she chose not even herself.

so why choose me?

paltry me—second?

a platter of unfulfillment.

it feels cold to not be chosen

to blink and not be seen

to be forgotten like a pebbled amulet

that has lost its kin,

ashy, chicken skin,

no body to be worn on,

all gloom.

i am sometimes drifting like

a lost person, with no heir

or heirloom, a fog

of longing.

until, i decided on myself.

that day, i chose me.

like an orchestra choosing

bach. i was a symphony,

my god. i was a grand symphony—

how could i have not known?

all these years

squandered on disbelief.

thinking i knew the ins and outs of living,

cocky with my pain,

my solace, my toxic sanctuary.

i know nothing of mercy,

especially not for myself.

i know nothing of redemption.

especially not for you.

i am stateless, lilting in the morning sun.

ONE

i am a self, yes

though sometimes it’s hard

to believe

i am a body (troubled)

that i have one, too.

TWO

i count how to love myself, thoroughly,

an abacus, my love handles as armrests,

belly a scooped armchair,

a vulnerable asylum.

THREE

there’s no choice, otherwise

the process is about letting yourself in

it’s about loving gently, dearly

warm, a known embrace

rum coating the belly.

FOUR

all of me, awoken, and brown

like a sweet creature of defiance.

FIVE

i hate my weaknesses:

how people can hurt me

with one triumphant just because.

how i’m always small next to

others’ self-assuredness

always—hand to heart—

waiting for a proffered description of me

to determine my worth.

i wait

for their approval to curl around my body,

a blanket of panicked

self-acceptance.

SIX

described as “too nice”

by the people closest.

sometimes i wear it like a badge, other times

like an ornate insult,

is everyone laughing at me?

SEVEN

my greed for love,

for my own perfection,

reeks of desperation,

but it is me and i am holy

in my unholiness, so

wonderfully messy,

that i can’t help but begin

to win myself over.

EIGHT

i pour honey into

the ocean for Oshun.

NINE

the body’s memory

more potent

more powerful

than human minds

than gendered egos.

i am alive,

and by god

i’m tired of being awakened, but unlived.

tomorrow, today, now

i step outside.