Two weeks at the age of twenty
I didn’t miss a single prayer.
Living in my mother’s perspective.
Prayers seeping between cupped hands
mouth in motion collapsing
into و, the opening.
I learned that [the river] has no tongue
except absence—
I mean patience.
Hunger. Either way, it’s summer
so the night curves into
ل
like a body bent in prostration.
Five times a day [the river] called out
to me and all I knew how to do was
answer on a lush prayer mat Sun
curling red patterns onto my skin.
But no one noticed
Not even [the river]
How I thinned into ا
Ezza Ahmed is an educator and poet based in NYC. Her poetry is concerned with diaspora, memory, and water (rivers, creeks, lakes, etc.). When she isn’t writing, she enjoys cozying up with a good cup of tea. Her work is in Wande Magazine, The Idaho Review, The Gingerbug Press and is forthcoming in the Sycamore Review.
