When I Prayed with Farida Qader

Sitting
against wood pressing hard
pushing me forward
as verbal waves ricochet
hands clasped
out of place under a steeple
bearing no resemblance to praying
with Farida Qader

Taking cover
under sky
so ceaseless, captured
in memory, the last time
I covered; small little girl with a star
patterned blanket
over her head
in a dark room
after a nightmare

She could not escape
what I could overcome
by waking.
Farida Qader had screamed;
no voice.
She had run desperately
in place,
scars revealing her efforts
upon skin the color of wet sand.

Back lit
by the glow of Venus
resting above the ocean line
she handed me coral silk
as wind lifted the cloth of her hijab;
floating, like gulls soar on a current.
We had already washed
with a wave polished stone.

Speaking
for me in contemplation,
sun flew away forming
the shadow I owned
before my existence

Asking
for her- could she repatriate to
the robbed land where
her countrymen
wait on rooftops
to die
from metallic rain?

Perhaps I will find her again at Maghreb
after I have reconciled myself with Allah, she may be
kneeling on her hands
and legs tucked under
pushing through lighter grains
the hue of linen falling
in tones under the rising moon.

©2006 Corey Habbas