For the Stranger Who Knew How to Pronounce My Name
Tell me how it came to be alla-win
for you. Understand: my father let me say it
wrong until I was fourteen and burying
my Jido. I loved the part where we each
said a Fatiha into a handful of dirt and dropped it
onto his newest silence. Do you also know
the Fatiha? It reminds me that we prefer
to feel beauty and fear close
to one another. I think this is how
it happened: Jido got into bed and didn’t
think of Mecca or of morning, and when I
found my father on a prayer rug
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for the first time, I knelt beside him
and said, alla-win, alla-win, alla-win.
Peace Be Upon You, O People of the Graves
Assalam alaikum yaa ahlil kuboor. My ancestors,
I haven’t come to you for words.
My tongue and your tongues have known
different shapes for God, for amygdala.
My body has less grace than one who knows
her own soft history unabridged.
Can you give me this, a string to hold?
Can you hold this, this other end,
so that it hangs not limp in the dirt?