the oaths of my Lord press into oil between my teeth
as He swears by the figs and olives from the land of the prophets—
by the Pen—the trees that could not suffice to be Pens, and the oceans
that could not suffice to be inkwells–unlettered, just like my Prophet.
Gabriel looms over me, demanding I read. I read in the name of
my Lord, who created Man from a blood clot, the first prophet
clutching at his rib, tearing eternity from the branches by his teeth
like the dreams my father dreamed, running after the Prophet.
so I ask him—when you return like a messiah to your motherland
from your time in capitalist lands, what is your margin of profit
from a share of the american dream? did it come to you in sleep
like the sacrifice of Ishmael? a true dream is 1/46th of a prophet’s
qualities. do you sharpen the knife like abraham and hold it
to my neck, resigned to your fate as a prophet?
and if all of these holy men were fatherless and unbelieved—
what does that make me, some kind of girl-prophet?
I toe the line between saint and heretic, begging for your belief.
an exodus was written in the journey of every prophet
before salvation comes, before heaven splits and the earth floods
forth from between my legs, birthing a baby prophet
fated for the crucifix. when your nation is your grave, will the angels
still ask: who is your Lord, your religion, your prophet?
when you return on the day of judgment, one man will be
resurrected a nation unto himself, for he never knew a prophet.
and when I, Salma, swear to return—my nation brands me
a soothsayer, a poet possessed by madness, a false prophet.