they said, and their grandma invented it.
A boy my age, a girl my sister’s. I wasn’t sure;
they lied about plenty—they were royalty
on a faraway island, their father was an astronaut,
their names were not their real names.
But the language I could hear was real as any.
Pattern I could attain. If I listened closely. If
I really tried. A lot of B’s, a lot of I’s. In his voice
my own name like an alien’s. I surprised them
after two weeks, sauntered into conversation
leaning blasé against their house, air
hot as any Western midday, mid-July.
A door unbolted. Talking in plain sight.
Selves and syllables doubling.
Secret language with the boy
across the street. We talked
about everything, nothing.
I wish I had a dog.
My dad is going to Mars.
They fought last night. I don’t want school to begin—
Anything. Just to speak.
We had never been so close
and we would never be so close again.
The differences between our lives closing
soon over our heads. Jordan’s rabbit died.
Summer is coming to an end.
What’s your favorite color, again?
Jasmine Khaliq is a Pakistani Mexican American poet born and raised in Northern California. Her work is found in Poetry Northwest, Poet Lore, The Rumpus, Bennington Review, Best New Poets 2023, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from University of Washington, Seattle. Currently, Jasmine is a Ph.D. student at the University of Utah. She can be found at jasminekhaliq.com.
Okay Donkey 