Over the horizon grass, I make a du’a
from the ark that is my body.
Allah is somewhere, conferenced by
Mohammed and the angels—
My mother is slaughtering a ram
at the back of the field and my
brother is playing a silent harmonica
in the dark because my father
warns him of snakes. An okra seed
I planted by a lake is just learning
to take its place among other things.
And I wish the language of grief
doesn’t come upon its leafs—
In this photo, is a memory itself.
In that memory is a reminder that all
things are ephemeral and
short-lived. In the ballet hall, I accept
that my feet has refused reconciliation
with the earth. I swear I know the thorns
that grow on the mouth silenced
for too long. In the words of the Imam
Allah’s world will supplicate itself
for us— but I am tired of this pageant
of war and tragic mishaps represented
as wounds. I want my callused fingers
to pray like siblings in the same quibla.
It is never easy to teach a wound healing
in the aftermath of another sampling—
In another time, I wish to welcome the
warm embrace at Allah’s feet and recognize
that I have been wrong all my life.