My Cousin Thinks I Gave Her Nazr

By EZZA AMHED

Because I didn’t say Mashallah when she swapped her nose stud for a hoop and two days later I’m met by the bursting bulb of blood and pus which seals the fibrous innards of her nose cartilage on the outside sits the bulb pulsing expanding as if it’s breathing looks like a red evil eye ornament white pupil right at the center she has a nose growing out of her nose says I did this to her it’s all my fault should’ve kept my mouth shut if I wasn’t going to let God grace my compliment and I’m baffled slight peaks of nervous laughter rumble up my throat I didn’t mean to give it to you I say all the words Mashallah Alhamdulilah Subhanallah Allah-hu-akbar but it’s a little too late the evil eye is taking over her nose so we look up an old Islamic cure but decide against it because neither of us want to wash our mouths and limbs in the same water and in a few months the evil eye goes away and so does the piercing and we’ve made a joke of the whole thing but it’s become a lesson that nazr is real and so is

The divine in me 
The river that moves inside me.

 

[Purchase Issue 31 here.] 

 

Ezza Ahmed is an educator and poet based in New York City. Her poetry is concerned with diaspora, memory, and water (rivers, creeks, lakes, etc.). Her work is in The Idaho Review, Ginger Bug Press, Sycamore Review, Apogee Journal, The Michigan Review, and Adi Magazine. 

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

My Cousin Thinks I Gave Her Nazr

Related Posts

May 2026 Poetry Feature: Arielle Hebert, from Bottom Feeders

ARIELLE HEBERT
Home again at the water’s edge, / palms dancing in salt breeze. / I take a too-deep breath / and the air prickles my lungs / like an unfiltered cigarette. / Only the tourists are swimming, / coughing through the algal bloom, / eyes bloodshot and skin burning.

Book cover of Cece

Review of Cécé by by Emmelie Prophète

SAM SPRATFORD
Uncle Frédo lies in the dark, water dripping through the sheet-metal roof. His American Dream crushed by the reality of existence as a non-white, non-citizen in the U.S., he returns to Haiti for the remainder of his life. He rarely speaks and is nearly always drunk. He spends his days in a dreamless twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness.

U.S. Space and Rocket Center

Rocket City Rising

BETHANY BRUNO
Outside my office window, trucks rumbled past loaded with pallets of equipment. The air always smelled faintly of dust and jet fuel. I thought about how this patch of land in northern Alabama, once a cotton field, then a proving ground, then a missile test site, was about to become home to something even bigger.