Praying

Can’t quite remember the place you can pray

without being preyed upon. Across the ocean,

the place they’ve stolen from, this place

I know I’m from. Nomads and mounted camel backs,

the hoof tracks

they leave

for easy journeys back. In face of travel bans to lands that

belonged to native men before the god damn Europeans invaded them.

Feels like just the other day,

my father unfurled his rug

alongside the only road leading to his mother’s home

in Guérou.

Feels like just today, he kept both hands on the wheel,

ignored the crescent moon looming just below his rearview,

and drove straight through

a sinking sun on I-95. Past Confederate flags, and monuments

that idolize the alt-right’s strives, the historical lies told by whites

who categorize my kind

by hijab and jihad. America’s not fond of

Ramadans, and Eid only means dead Arabs. On the TV

screens, we watch AlJazeera paint the scene we’ve seen

before: bronzed bodies burned black in war’s debris.

This proxy war has killed approximately -- what does the number matter?

If we see refugees and think money and how much is that gonna cost me

and ​philanthropy is only for the wealthy ​but I guess we’ll see.

Who is really investing in the sanctity of brown bodies?

Nobody blinks at babies burned to third degree, or contemplate

the travesties sponsored by the wealthiest countries.

Feels like just last May,

my father didn’t celebrate the days of revelation.

Ramadan was served on a full dinner plate

since he works too late to entertain

the culture America finds so intimidating.