You are in my prayers

such as they are,

which is to say imperfect,

bound together with a bit of biodegradable twine

and sprouted in a shovel full of compost

yearning like the veins

on a translucent yellow leaf

earnest but

not ever quite what the scholars imagined.

 

Neither the ecstatic precision of

a mystic on cosmic time

counting each sujood as an essential detail in the

unfurling of some great global lotus of prayer,

nor the hafizah who corrects the

timing of my salaam

seem to motivate the kind of

principled obedience I might

expect from myself.

 

It seems my heart has always some

stray hair

or unintentional caress

to dole out in exactly the wrong circumstance.

It seems I am always falling backwards

out of the parable, and onto the floor

unkempt and smiling.

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