A Hijab of My Own

Every Friday, I wrestle with it—

my kinky hair,

the need to make it slick like Arab girls’. 

Hijab never glides over puffs and twists. 

To enter their mosque, I must pin the ends

below my chin, pretend

the silk doesn’t snag, and my ears don’t burn,

skin rubbed red.  In their mosque,

women sit behind a lace curtain,

drape hijab over their heads and chests.

These women are from everywhere except here.

An Arab asks where my parents were born. 

I must be from somewhere too.  Maybe Somalia.

No, America, I reply.

She can’t understand.  She asks my name.

I say I-sha, never I-e-sha.

I am what is easy for them.

I-sha....the Prophet’s wife...

Masha’allah I-sha.

They bless my name, kiss me

on each cheek, offer Salaams.  I itch

to push back the fabric, wrap it like Badu,

cloth spiraled around black hair

spreading up and out–

my hijab’s natural cushion.