By Jannah Yusuf Al-Jamil
I can only tell you that I love you with
greasy fingers and the scent of raw onion in the air,
between who the hell gives rice with haleem?! and hey can you give me more naan? and
let me pay, I swear to God! I will ask for extra ginger in your nihari,
pack up all the leftovers for you to take home, lean close to you
smelling like everyone’s mother’s kitchen. I will put pistachios in your
pretty-pink chai, blow on it so it doesn’t burn your tongue. I will find us
a table near the back so the winter wind doesn’t cool down your karahi, give you
the bread before it goes cold. I will buy you lamb — enough said. I will say
this was nice, let’s do it again soon, and we won’t do it again soon, but
when I finally take the peas out of your samosas again, it will be like every year before. Here —
lean out the door, lean into my arm. I can only tell you that I love you like this.
Jannah Yusuf Al-Jamil is a young Muslim poet who co-founded antinarrative zine and reads for Lumiere Review. They are on a quest for many things, namely the perfect shawarma. Find their work in IMPOSTOR, Pollux Journal, Overheard, and at jannahyusufaljamil.carrd.co.
Hot Pot Magazine 