Mosab

My father gave me a difficult name.

Inside it sit two letters that don’t exist in English.

My father didn’t know I would

have English-speaking friends,

always asking how to pronounce my name,

or trying to avoid saying it.

But Dad, I like to hear others address me by name,

especially friends.

Even my name’s root means difficult.

A camel that is described as Mosab

is one that’s difficult to mount and ride.

But I’m not difficult in any way.

I will undress myself and show you

my shoulders, how dust has come to rest on them,

my chest, how tears have wet its thin skin,

my back, how sweat has made it pale,

my belly, how hair has covered my navel,

the spot where my mother fed me before birth.

The same spot, they say, the angel of death

will pierce to take away my soul.

And now, at night, my son’s head hurts

when he rests it on my belly.

And my clothes, I feel them loose,

while others see them tight on me.

When someone from the life insurance company calls

and pronounces my name in English,

I see the angel of death in the mirror,

with eyes that watch me

crumbling onto this foreign ground.