Why do I write?
This you ask me.

These things you should ask:

Why did my father hate,
Spew spiteful slander over dinner,
So often erupt in rage,
Hammer, pound me
With words like nails,
Make me small,
Frightened always.
Ask the size of his belt,
The feel of his fingers
At my throat.

Ask why Mother
So often confided
I shamed her,
Embarrassed her.
Ask why,
When women came
For cards, drink and laughter,
I hid beneath my bed,
Stopped up my ears
Against their cackles
Down the hall.

Why do I write?

Ask why the Sufis found me,
Why in traveled towns
Bookstores bade me enter,
Where the sweet scent of baraka
Would lead to a single perfect text
Upon a shelf.

Ask the purpose of
My existence.
Sufis suggest
We were given Life
Such that through our eyes
The Creator may view
The beauty of all she created.

Then ask why I write.

Ask
What is family?
My entire life
I have searched for such
To call my own.
You, you are family.
Am I not like you,
You like me,
Awake in the Night
Fitting words
Here, there and there,
Fitting pieces of life to a page,
Hoping to fit  beauty
To one another’s hearts.

Now ask why I write.

I write for myself.
I write for you.
I write for God.