When I Grow Up I Want to Be the Culmination of Things I Took for Granted
Hiba Tahir
Wondrously empty shells in the pistachio bag; my mother’s insistence on buying me new spoons; gleaming spokes on a bicycle wheel; the first scraped knee; the satisfying click after a successful left turn; right turns; always right turns; the sun peaking just over the Ozarks; the first summer watermelon; watermelon seeds; cold watermelon juice down our arms; the rolling of hills, of dough my mother kneads deep; needs deep; spoons the butter chicken; stove-top naan and its rise, pistachio ice cream; glowing lanterns; a wasted wick; the shiver; an early morning lake; an early, unnecessary mourning; the relief; the relief; the relief; the audacity of a carrot—so bright! and conical!— the color orange; an orange orange; the bus stops; the short, brisk walks; the saxophone solos; the papery thin leaves; the sap of river birches; the sap of saps; the blazing desire to believe, no matter the statistics; my mother: I bought you a new spoon today.
