At the mosque,
the speaker raises the cleric's shriveled voice—
it's a call to isha
a boy walks in with a threadbare cloth
a breatpocket carrying ashrine dreams
& a mother submerging into darkness at every sigh
he sits with a rosary bead again
nothing flinches in his supplication
he wouldn't mind his father's body in a shroud
settling in his head like mist—
it always seems the coffin maker is a better soldier on a prayer-field,
he always outprays us.
he commits his father's journey in allah's palms again
how does he entrust his father's body to palms cracked to shove breath into lungs?
he wouldn't even mind his mother stappled to a bed by hernia
he still calls his god allah and not a lie
should you see the boy again tomorrow,
beg him to emit his faith into my nares
mine is broken like ellipsis.
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