In a row, three generations
of prayer. When foreheads
meet the floor, Nanu
gets a chair.
Crickets shout through open
windows to break the silence
and silk whispers between
knees and rug to break the bows.
Nanu is too old to bend
to pray; you pull her up
a chair these days. There
are Stars scared of the night
they’ll see you flicker.
You and two mothers
sway, there is mango
and honeydew on three plates
and dates to break the fast
shadow crossing the moon,
the tides forecast.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC
In a row, three generations
of prayer. When foreheads
meet the floor, Nanu
gets a chair.
Crickets shout through open
windows to break the silence
and silk whispers between
knees and rug to break the bows.
Nanu is too old to bend
to pray; you pull her up
a chair these days. There
are Stars scared of the night
they’ll see you flicker.
You and two mothers
sway, there is mango
and honeydew on three plates
and dates to break the fast
shadow crossing the moon,
the tides forecast.
