Ramadan, 1979

By | 5 December 2019

Barely old enough to fast, my father
agreed to half-a-day with water.
In the morning I put on my slippers
& moved with the rhythm of our households:
a little mimic to the adults who woke to pray.
The azhan in Alexandria was worth flinging
windows open to & drinking in while
sitting on a plastic chair on our balakona.
Worth turning ABBA off so that the voice
of the muezzin could be heard over modern noise.
I watched the Mediterranean Sea & said
its other name. I heard my name given a new
syllable. I sipped water on the morning
of the first day of the holy month
while the crescent pearled on the horizon.
I lived again on the Hijrah calendar.
It was a revolutionary year. I turned seven.

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