Lahore’s Morning New York’s Night

Ayesha Raees

سوگ—a word I searched for on a google translate rodeo in wonder how it would roll on my tongue in a language I learned before the language I became too good at. I had a palm reading done for $5.00 from a blonde woman sitting outside of Union Square Trader Joe’s who said CareFul CareFul Of Your Life/ Fuck A Crystal/ Forget A God/ Let Me Take Over/ Give Me All Your Money. I don’t have money. I live in New York City. Today is the 15th of January of 2020. 1 dollar equals to 154.00 Pakistani Rupees. Wat R u Doing? My mother WhatsApps me and I am traumatized to ever answer anyone concretely. At 99 Favor Taste, over bubbling stock, over boiling shrimp, my friend says: This Is Not Even Your Country/ This Is Not Even Your Discovery/ Girl. I just like this planet. Girl. My armpits sweats of infested youth, drowns my clothes towards a sky I must see too. Girl. When the snow falls, I think of souls. Wispy. Fragmented. Temporal moments of architectural marveling growths. Giving in to heat and glow. This Must Be The Material You Must Be Made Up Of. I say to my missing shoulder. My missing mate. I open my mouth wide. And swallow.