Filling this space is a never-ending 

project. His kisses are clumsy, lips 

unaccustomed to the taste 

of a woman. So what now? 

he asks. You know we don't do this 

in my country. 

I know all too well, inhaling 

the cologne and cigarettes 

of father, of uncle, Honor 

sliding off my back in 

every direction. 

He can't get a rhythm. 

I try to guide, the specter 

of many similar nights 

lingering 

in the room. 

His face is concentrated, 

frustrated, lonely, sad. I try to pry 

words or moans out of him, 

but he remains stoic, 

thrusting. 

There is no satisfaction. He rolls 

over, wipes his brow, finally 

smiles and says, I like 

your tattoo. 

I shake my head. I forgot 

my father tongue is carved– 

haraam– 

into my back. 

We watch videos 

from the golden age 

of our people's music. 

I spit out words 

I haven't used 

in years. 

If you want to do this back home? 

I ask. You get a dirty hotel. 

He says he's too young to be religious. 

I lie on his black-haired chest, 

hearing the zeffa drums; close my eyes 

and see the dresses 

of the women, the approval 

of my father. 

I drift off to cologne and cigarettes, 

Wondering who I would be 

In henna and gold.