We wear miniskirts, drink strong coffee
in our parents’ houses noisy with music
imported from Egypt and Lebanon,
with visitors, tea and humidity, in rooms
draped with calligraphy scrolls.

We inhale colors smoking with warmth,
cheery clutter, spices and perfumed breath,
as we browse matrimonial sites and giggle
at the pensive pictures of boys, the sound of fans
whirring in the windows.

We turn to Mecca for prayers
before koushar, and after, spiced oranges
and raisins, laughing and dancing around
the living room, scarves draped around
our denim hips, the Eye of Horus hovering
over our doors.

We snuggle into cushions in the night,
lazy, as salaam, snatching at tiger nut sweets
and green mint tea, reading magazines
as tabby cats lay out in curls and straight lines,
and gaming systems tucked behind
the television stand.