Syrian-American as in—a room with mahogany

double doors and nothing behind them

but death and dead. We all have dead.

Syria and America, two unplanned graves

of mangled legs, mud-crusted skin.

I roll my heart in, shovel the sand.

Syrian-American as in—I am only half

of my father and waning as America takes me in

without warmth, his country also waning

into a rubble where children play.

The moment I saw my father in me,

Syrian and American equal in us,

both countries turned inside out

to swallow their own humanity.

I traverse unimaginable space—a pilgrimage

undue to higher powers—and on the other

side, I reach for my father, to find what is left

when we become a menagerie

of losses. His hand, an artifact of Palmyra

kept safe in a home where no one lives.

Syrian-American as in—here we are,

far away from all the war, an elegy

for what is left over, praying for halves

to make a home.