If only she could hear it now in your
real voice again, instead of in the same
old message she keeps pressing to her ear,
keeps playing on her cell-phone – that sweet name
you’d call her by, repeat in every call.
If only she could hear it as she did
when it was still a tossed-off term, a small
Urdu word you’d slip into your English
between your quick hello, your rushed goodbye.
If only she could hear it when it meant
nothing more than “child,” when it would slide
so lightly from your Pakistani accent.
When it was just two consonants, two vowels,
before it had to hold your bones, your soul.