My Brother-in-law Recites the Takbir
In the revolving door of my sister’s apartment,
my brother-in-law kneels East, palms the Quran.
Feet washed, he crosses arms over chest
drowning the days as heavy stones
in supplication.
My sister,
confusing devotion
with taking him back, bows
by his side. It is a sight
that makes my knees buckle
so beautiful and familiar
to the days I spent
prostrate, mimicking
our mother’s morning prayers,
the beads of her misbaha
squeezed tightly between
my fingers
as I sung the ninety-nine names
of Allah. The first time
my brother-in-law leaves,
his shadow in the bed sheets
is the braille
my sister deciphers her swollen belly
across. The second time, she comes
to sleep at my house,
their new son
at her nipple like a hooked fish.
It is winter in Chicago.
My brother-in-law,
having broken
every syllable between them,
turns silence into metaphor.
My sister prays towards the god
of our mother and our memories.
A god I hope would rather
throw away a miracle
than bend an ear
towards the wishes
of a father who has weaponized
leaving. My sister
looks out into her life
cooled by the breeze
of a door slamming. A man
who only looks back,
when returning.
My brother-in-law is home
again. I cradle their son in my arms
so they can pray.
Enough history between us
that my nephew calms quickly, reaches
towards my chest
as if searching
for my sister’s residue, his eyes
so new they are my prayer.
With my nephew in my arms
the only thing between Allah and me
are two cans and a string.
My brother-in-law’s need
a valley, my sister’s a mirror.
With his eyes wide
open, my brother-in-law raises both hands
and recites the Takbir, the storm in him
quelling to a melody and already I know
the next time he leaves
my sister will invite him back
into her body,
her temperature just beginning
to drop
after carrying the weight
of two heartbeats.
