Born Dirty

by Hajer Requiq

“Who spilled coffee
into my blood?”

My mother shushes me,
ties her print kerchief
around my grazed knee.
The sight of my own blood
never scared me.
Discovering how dark it is
always did.

All the women I happened to know
sprout from the same coffee shrub.
Except Hannah —
Buttercream
and sugar icing.
I bet when she bleeds,
it is coconut milk
and Pina Colada.
Sometimes, during recess,
I catch her gawking at me,
her nostrils dilating at
the waft of brewed coffee,
her lips curving
into a question mark:
“In what playground
did you get so dirty?”

At night, it is soap lather madness,
corn-starch frenzy.
I rinse and powder,
powder and rinse
and try to shake
the brown matter
off my body.
“Scrub! Scrub! Scrub!” —
I remember overhearing my mother
shrieking in the bathtub,
the loofah in her grip
hardening into sandpaper
as she wrings the dark,

dark
fluid
out of her prune heart.
All the mothers in my family
reek of baby milk
and freshly ground
coffee beans.
Some mothers even have
entire trees
branching onto their backs,
black sap
and calloused trunks.
The last time I caught
Hannah staring,
I pointed at my body
and rehearsed
my newest punchline:
“Oh, this black thing?
It just crawled on me
one night
and wouldn't come off.”

Summer is always easier
for me.
Hannah returns from holidays,
puffed and overbaked
like a cinnamon roll.
I thank God for every
summer day
Hannah and I got dirty
in the same playground.