Inam Kangthings were nasty in my face for those months, sticky like a strawberry stepped on over a tile floor. i’d turn to one side and there a hurdle where the air flows, then flipped to the other side to the same violent blockade. then a doctor and another, and finally a drill to my ear drums to make the water drain on to my pillows so i could hear my mother crying on the janamaz in the corner of the house again, but still blood from my nose and throat. so they cut bone by moving through my nostrils and into the cavities before my brain. they said after, there was no room to move air-no room to hear or smell or hardly walk-how did you- how did you- how again-but that all felt like a rude question.so i let them break open my faceand i woke up mouth dry and breathing sand. after months of clots, poppies came up from my nosein a hell-winter of spider headachesclawing their webs down to my upper back, light too bright for me to even read my name. i eventually woke up to a long breath in my nose. my head on the pillow and it did its long stretch in my lungs. i hooked my hands to the side of my bed and stayed there like i’d already fallen in love with who was drowning in the sheets. like a lover lived there and i knew his name as history. and there, the cobwebs spun themselves out as waves of begonias from the corners of my atrophied ribs. so no wonder she said she already knew. i called my mother with a sigh and she spoke only in prayer alhamdulillah i felt you breathe from across the city beta. it’s so good to know you can sleep again. it’s so good you dancing with the air.