That summer, Amman was a broken
railing I tried to lean on
& the Athan was like a song
I tried & tried to love. I was
little & terrified
of God, my lust hanging
from the roots of my hair —
what did I know of hunger
which moved at the speed
of fingers exploring a body
I wanted to be mine. I remember
my grandmother
tapping her feet during iftar,
say al-Hamdillah, say I am thankful
for this sunlight, this sorrow,
this summer which is endless
& tastes like a heat. After iftar,
I would hold her hand, let her guide
me to the women’s mosque
where dirt lined
the soles of their feet,
their hands clutching prayer beads,
eyes with us & not. I longed
for that softness & surrender
which I mistook for faith.
Oh Allah, I never found you
in those spaces. Oh Allah,
it’s true: I became selfish, years later.
It’s true I wanted to fuck
her — drank to drink
& get drunk until I was brave
& no longer a girl
wiping my teeth
with pages of the Quran.
When morning came, one of us
spent hours washing
her hands in an ocean of bleach,
the other stumbled into a mosque
for the first time in years
& howled at Allah for creating
appetites & tongues, for lungs
that inhale so much of this world.
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