Noor Fatima

Before landing, I fold two skies beneath my tongue.

One tastes of mangos, sink water, heat turned holy.

The other arrives blue-cold, paper-thin, creased from years of obedience.

The officer asks where I belong, and means: which part can be filed.

I open my mouth; a whole monsoon floods the counter.

Gold syllables surface first, sticky from years of hiding.

The colder alphabet follows, buttoning every loose edge shut.

Behind me, my mother worries prayers into her palms.

Ahead, fluorescent lights hum my name almost correctly.

I am tired of choosing which wound looks easiest to declare.

At baggage claim, the carousel returns every version of me

slightly lighter, zipper split, still circling.

Inside: cardamom, snowmelt, goat-bell, house key, ash,

a country I left, a country I learned, a country still learning my mouth.

Nothing is marked "fragile".

They hand back my passport.

So I walk through, overfilled and undeclared,

belonging nowhere cleanly enough to be believed,

one sky still leaking from my throat,

the other

refusing to clear customs.