Something about the Islamic prayer
Reverberating in the dusty
boney dog and cat infested
sweet potato food cart courtyard
outside the hospital,
woke me up every single
night for a week and a half.
The tone was harsh
and spoke some emotional
language I couldn’t tolerate or understand
at first,
until I realized it was translating
exactly
the language of my heart
fully alive to
my brother’s
suffering
in the hospital across
the street from my hotel.
And I’d cry.
The way I cry in my car alone
To Dustin Tebutt’s song
“First Light” when
I want to purposely
draw out the grief
of leaving my old
life behind.
When the Norwegian threads
In me yank at my insides
Like the prick of being stitched
up after giving birth.
Or when I sat on my
1o-year-old son’s bed
two summers ago.
He told me all the memories
of our family vacations
on Ocracoke.
While he raged and told me
I’d ruined his life.
Tell me more, I repeated,
Trembling.
I began to crave the prayer,
Those nights I spent in the
Swiss Inn Cairo Hotel.
I would turn over and lay flat on my back
from my fetal position.
And tell my heart,
Be brave, Motherfucker.
You will not die.
The same thing I tell
myself in a plane
when the ride becomes bumpy:
This plane is made
for turbulence.
Powerful and moving, AE. Excellent work. I love it.
I love this poem. Beautifully written.