My Aba’s Masjid

My Aba’s Masjid

These days there are fish who swim in and out of my Aba’s masjid. 

The river runs slow and deep, and there are boats that run in the sky like air.  

The ground where my ancestors’ foreheads touched in prayer has turned 

into the sound of water, the sound of air, has been absorbed by the silence 

of the fish, coated on the rocks at the bottom of the river bed.  

Where my mother came a shaking bride, the water anemones procreate endlessly.

Where the women combed out their hair, there are strands of grasses 

and seaweed, rocks that lay and roll like boulders where my father played in the trees. 

These days there are fish who swim in and out of my Aba’s masjid.  

The river runs slow and deep and all the bones of my ancestors 

have risen to the surface to knock and click like the sounds of trees in the air.