when I talk to my mother about loss
she says human she says el rasool
even the prophet peace be upon him
lost some of his children
and I see him wide eyed still searching
beads between his burning fingers
almost humming ayah after ayah
his heart newly washed in a bowl of snow
and I am running after him moss smearing
on my shins yelling his name
like a fire erupted in my throat flames
at my teeth curving into a battle
and he never stops doesn’t turn around
the cloth he’s wrapped within never once
catches on to the branches his shoulders
spread back to near snapping point
and I hear the nightjar flying from branch
to branch its call changing each time it turns
a moth withering on its tongue then later a stone to throw.