while I was crossing Queens Boulevard.
It wasn’t because it was after my mammogram
or that I went shopping at Zara afterwards
for a New Year’s Eve dress when there was
no party. Will I ever go on a date again.
What if I don’t write another poem. I miss
throwing parties, now that everything
has changed.

The results came back normal, and I went
to a jazz bar wearing leggings and a Nirvana t-shirt
and boys flirted with me until I said no. I wrote
the day after and the day after that, and there
have been parties at other homes. Guess what,
I made dolma
just for myself and ate it for breakfast and dinner.

You wrote: I hope all is okay with you, that’s all.

I cried.
It’s because we know manayeesh,
how the sesame seeds get stuck in teeth
the strong Lipton tea with too much sugar
the wars in Beirut and stories we overheard
through the walls of the kitchen.
Did your dedeh chew on stems of parsley?
Did he take long naps and was he disappointed
in America? Why is everyone so sensitive,
I’ll never know, when for our mothers
trick-or-treating was a mooratzgan begging
for candy. Did you have to dust the corners
like an immigrant to calm the house.
My father was a capitalist and my mother
hated the backyard cherry tree.
I should tell you all this, one day. And me
pushing through the cold night air as I walked
across Queens Boulevard.