"We wash our feet five times a day,"

my grandmother declares hotly in Arabic.

"My feet are cleaner than their sink.

Worried about their sink, are they? I

should worry about my feet!"

My grandmother nudges me, "Go on, tell them."

 

Prepping classes. I love that part of the poem, and the title of it, which reminds me of taking shits and looking through the catalog painstakingly at an age just before I got ocd about matching my panties to my bra just in case (I should get hit by a car). The rest of it here.