prayers

my mother prays, always

in the dew sprinkled

hours of dawn

her mukenah is a

pale blur of crinkled

fabric over prayer

mats worn by each

kneeling plea for forgiveness.

i rouse to her and

the ring of birdsong

and cricket clacks,

mosques braying prayers

through loudspeakers

wondering if she prays

for a yellow flash of sun,

an orange peek, through

curtains of sleet

or for roses to grow

among rows of grass

sarcophagi under bamboo

shoots wearing flags of red and white.

sometimes i join too, my childish

wish to the man in the sky for

mango trees in my

grandmother’s garden,

thunder in my ears,

so my grandfather

might come down once again

to slice the green mangoes

into orange bowls

of sweet flesh, dripping

from my smiling tongue.

at times i wish for the light of

such days, as i sit upon my

cloud of memories, begging

upon the stars and bears

rushing through the constellations

sitting on my prayer ma

worn out by years of knees

folded arms and twitching ankles,

feet standing still in qomah,

prayers for soft

mangoes on my lips.

soon the dawn will disappear, my

dew dreams evaporating into

the mist of day, and my mother

will rise from her stupor

my grandfather still resting

beneath the red and white

bamboo shoots, a whistle

of angklung with the wind

within that twilight moment of

dawn and day, as i leave my prayers

here:

a saccharine whisper of mangoes—

orange bowls of sun, dripping

on my worn out mat.