Her eyes are

Blue, like the frosted lawn

On winter mornings;

Blue, like the collar on her brother's sweater,

Torn open that time they burrowed into the hedge together

And built a secret fort against the fence;

Blue, like the hazy summer sky in an oil puddle

Under the Ford Mustang;

The rainbow-splashed oil streaming down the chalky driveway

To melt into the asphalt river.

Her eyes are

Blue, like the steam against the dawn

When she rises for fajr;

Blue, like the thread in the alabaster silk,

Weaving like a vein through her hijab;

Blue, like her fingertips

When she clasps her brother's hand

And stares ice-eyed at the door

As the store manager closes it in front of them:

"We don't want your kind here."