Prayers of a Young Immigrant

1 We ferry back from Ellis Island and Ms. P asks if I feel sick.
Her blond hair flaps like a flag in the sulfur breeze. We churn
through Upper New York Bay, the water in brown peaks but
I’m not nauseous. I’ve just taken her assignment too seriously,
imagining I’m white and blue-eyed, imagining I’m arriving
on a creaking ship in 1902, a ragged shawl around my shoulders,
imagining I’m praying for safety in the arms of Lady Liberty —

2 Because I still held my red pushpin but everyone else found their place
of birth, because I was nine and I knew exactly where Lusaka, Zambia
was, because I remember tracing a map of the continent, carefully coloring
land in amber and water in baby blue, because Ms. P assigned it to me,
because our fourth-grade classroom had no map of Africa —

3 4:45 am, one more prayer before going back to sleep, thirty-three
amber tasbih beads warm between my fingers, chanting one prayer.
Oh Allah, please, let me have:

blue eyes blue eyes
______blue eyes blue eyes
____________blue eyes blue eyes
__________________blue eyes blue eyes
________________________blue eyes blue eyes
______________________________blue eyes blue eyes
blue eyes blue eyes
______blue eyes blue eyes
____________blue eyes blue eyes
__________________blue eyes blue eyes
________________________blue eyes blue eyes
______________________________blue eyes blue eyes
blue eyes blue eyes
______blue eyes blue eyes
____________blue eyes blue eyes
__________________blue eyes blue eyes
____________________________________blue eyes.