In my stream of thoughts, script sews itself into half of it

and still, I find myself on the outskirts of two worlds

since I’ve left girlhood. Tried to build a bridge with my back

across the Atlantic, stretched my body as far as the skin

on my limbs would grant it, but found myself poured over prayer

mats still asking the right questions in the wrong languages.

Hoping God translates this.

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.

Always loved the soft, sunstained, warm body

of my grandmother, the textured scripture

she sprinkles over holy beads. Always loved her too much,

or maybe just loved how much she loved me,

to ask if she’d ever grow tired of folding

her body for men, for religion, for all things in power

under heaven -- the things we’ve been told to cling to as women

to ensure we’ll never be free again or without a fastened knot to someone else.