A Gentle Shower Falls on Santiago Street
By Raitah Jinnat
A little girl first learns to read
when she peels away a street sign:
“onion turnpike”.
The vowels tell me that “I O U”
delicious bhorta balled up
into rice. My mom gently feeds
the mash to me from her fingertips:
to care for moina pakhi in the nest.
More perch on Glen Oaks gingko with
fruit whose acrid stink
blooms under my Twinkle Toes,
or on the air-conditioning for
offspring of offspring to come.
I used to hate the trips to the
Jackson Heights boutiques
and the Sagar Chinese:
the subway and steps and
the itch of a net sleeve
pounding my eardrums.
Setting off fuchka and momo bombs,
or Forest Hills live shows
with friends,
I would do anything to
take those steps again.
A little girl first learns to walk
when she peels away a foot brace.
My dad also gently files fables
of life lessons: like of
adding up one to a hundred,
diamonds buried in the wheat.
I first learned of God’s word sitting
on a sky carpet with a cobalt mushaf
bigger than my face at a house in Hollis.
“Alif, baa, taa”.
Each letter, another star
in the sky
to tell my mom about later.
Each letter, prophets like Yaqub
once uttered with Peace Upon Him.
Time and time again,
love is a good home:
narikel tel drenching the scalp,
salwar kameez and sheets fussed with
as guests are about to arrive,
cha for a moment of respite.
I pray harder for a heart
welcoming families and friends like mine,
with an appetite for exploration only
Steinway Street shawarma can satiate.
Burst flames of sundown hues,
and fuckass fake tan
raised in Jamaica Estates,
could never usurp a good home.
Daughters of the world’s borough
look for home everywhere,
God’s word aloud
all this time:
the chirping birds,
the subway busking,
warmth of Corona
radiating for all.
I hope to hear
more of Him, like
on the way back
when it downpours
through and around
Grand Central Parkway,
so more wheat can grow.
Raitah Jinnat is a Queens-based poet and writer. Her Substack newsletter _Raitah, like writer _features personal essays and poetry.