Ammi, A Prayer
At twenty, I would bury myself
in prostration. That year, the moon
was a circle
in the dark, dimension-
less. In the mirror,
my face was dulling each hour,
my features contorting,
until even I could not bear
to look at myself.
Mother, remember you
told me then to fight with God
as I prayed, to howl
like a child to demand
what was mine? God, then,
seemed too far. I know now;
I only saw you
raising your hands, your fingers
gripping nothing, heard you
crying softly, in the way
a mother must.
~ ~
Faiz writes:
Perhaps the mirror of the world will clear once again.
Perhaps the gaze will travel, once again, to the limits of sight.
~ ~
Each day,
I gaze for hours. There is still
no sign of beauty.
My mother’s prayers remain
unfulfilled. Her children live far
from her, and I do not pray,
though I do
often fight with God.
~ ~
Mother
I have always wanted to bow
before you, entreat you
to hold fast to what is yours,
lay at your altar
what you did not know you had.
Mother in the mirror
you, too, have only ever seen your dark-
ness. Even as your face
adorns it.
Mother, how many times
have you folded?
What have you hushed
in your palms?
30 years you spoke God’s
every name,
waiting for Him to turn,
to see you