7.10 / September 2012

Moustache Girl


I shaved it off
instead of using her cream,

little did she know.
I found the razor.

I liked the feel of it.
The almost-bleeding.


It was the one thing I ever asked of my mother:

Can I shave? Can I shave yet?
Bleach my body’s follicles.

My arms had too much hair,
looked weird at the pool party:

my legs, soft, black matted.
The razor, sharp-edged tool

gently scraped oil from skin.
A baby duck can’t find its mother

if you touch it.


I wished I was in Egypt,
where my cousins hid their faces.

Walk like an Egyptian, America taunts,
sing that Bangles’ song,

I stick my belly out when I dance,
higher than my hips.

I stick my mouth on your mouth,
tongue higher than my teeth.

America sings, even my father.
He wore star-spangled shirts,

cheered USA! USA!

He told friends to call him Johnny,
bleached Mohamed at its roots.

Alia Hamada was born in Phoenix, AZ and received her MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University's low-residency program. She currently lives in Somerville, MA and works at 826 Boston, a creative writing and tutoring center serving youth ages 6-18. Recent poetry has appeared in Gigantic Sequins and elimae.
7.10 / September 2012