Sorkhna

Sorkhna,
my most beautiful host sister,
never fully warmed to me
she curves over a bucket and throws her
thin limbs into cleaning clothes,
brown water, peanut soap, squishy
sounds I still can't make, we are so
different. Between us stands a
boy who towers over her, grinning; and I
brush my teeth, glaring, wondering what
he says as she scrubs and cooly shuts
off her beautiful face. I am angry for
her because we are women, but she
is hunched and he is between us in
a language I'll never know and really,
we're not the same or even close. Sorkhna,
I want to help you, and you're the one
who doesn't even talk to me. I think this
has something to do
with your beauty against my whiteness and why
is it that that makes the picture of you sadder,
is it that retired americans would send you
their savings if only
they saw your face? you could be
a model, after all, and for some reason,
this is heart-breaking, as
you wash my
jeans and I
spit.