I keep the first of Allah’s ninety-nine names
on my tongue: Ar’Rahman, The Most Merciful.
It must mean that They love me.

The word for the burden that
we must carry sounds like mercy:
the womb, rahim.

I was not pushed from between her legs
but still, heaven lies at the feet of my mother.
I look into her eyes, and I know that she must love me.

My teeth press into my knees as I wait,
soon they drip and stain around my ankles
the color of a mother’s love.

I give no mercy to the earth, for this is my best friend.
I will bury her on her side as I force the jagged letters
through my teeth Inna Lillahi wa Inna ilayhi raji’un.

Put me into the earth face down, let me speak with her.
I know, it won’t be long before I tangle myself in these roots,
but I just want to talk.

The facade will soon slip away.
I will shake off the loose soil and stand
knee deep in this grave. Memories will fray like strings—
nothing but tendrils now tiny threads, thin and frail.
Sacred water will not be spilled for her here, yet I grew here
a desert rose.