Learning to Pray

My father moved patiently
cupping his hands beneath his chin,
kneeling on a janamaz

then pressing his forehead to a circle

of Karbala clay. Occasionally

he’d glance over at my clumsy mirroring,

my too-big Packers T-shirt
and pebble-red shorts,
and smile a little, despite himself.

Bending there with his whole form

marbled in light, he looked like

a photograph of a famous ghost.

I ached to be so beautiful.
I hardly knew anything yet—
not the boiling point of water

or the capital of Iran,

not the five pillars of Islam

or the Verse of the Sword—

I knew only that I wanted
to be like him,
that twilit stripe of father

mesmerizing as the bluewhite Iznik tile

hanging in our kitchen, worshipped

as the long faultless tongue of God.

Kaveh Akbar