In Which I Become Fertile Ground

Noor Shahzad

Lately, my aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers, adult cousins and kid cousins, my mother and my wax lady, all ask me one thing: when will you have a baby? What an ugly thing to say to someone. Ask me about the miracle of banana milkshakes, swarms of birds, or plane landings. Ask me about apple picking, Afghanistan, or America—second next to God. Ask me about the guns in my area, the broken fire alarm whose recurring chirps have made it into my dreams, the hair in my bathtub, the song in my guts.