A time and a place

...

The sound of my name 
from the barista at the مقهى 
I frequented every morning.
Fairouz echoing softly in the background.
Qur’an recitations and couscous on Fridays.
Cigarette smoke, the sweltering mid-summer heat—
blended into a pleasant aroma I long for 
yet cannot replicate.


I am now home and my name is scribbled incorrectly 
across a plastic cup in the sea of stomping shoes and faces 
that blur into scattered muffles of sound
my identity and name have been dulled into a capitalistic experience—
a perk that should invoke feelings of pleasure,
but only reminds me of the people from the places I am now far from.


my name has travelled from the tips of beautiful tongues
to receipts and poor attempts at forming human connection.
this is my home, yet my name feels foreign on its tongue.