I am cursed to see the ultraviolet

but my brown mama says that UV rays hurt
our skin and our religion
we should see more black and white but
gray looks good on me i don’t know how to
explain to her that the body paint she found
while she forced herself to do my laundry while she’s
here from masr doesn’t mean that i’m not

a good muslim
gonna live out
my dreams
(your dreams is what Arab parents call dreams they steamroll)

by the bougainvilleas i stand on the phone
because if i walk into the garage with the
voice of this girl on the other side of the line
how do i look in the mirror and say I am
a good muslim
should be more Islam than art
can i chase Islam with art
as mixes i could envision them
making spectacles of spectra
but i’m not supposed to see ultraviolet
it’s bad for colored eyes especially those of
a good muslim


there is a point you reach with a person
where you speak
and learn
and love their soul
by the physical
which disappears
we kindle a fire that we nourish
each other from
taking our bodies off as we enter the ocean
to be reworn later
our fights shatter the pearly gates and windows to crystallize
our brokenness,
it stares at us in the broken mirror
i hid my purple imperfect inside me until it took over all the perfect cells
and killed them, it was just looking for food and air and a chance to talk to
other imperfects but i forced it inside me because i saw so many perfects and
thought that they wouldn’t like purple

so please, tear up

a tear that shows me you, smiles more than teeth that hide the purple