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