The white cross pales
further still,
nailed arms
watchful as window-light
furls over the backs
of our knees,
as lavender shadows
cut off our little
necks. I am an infidel
in this classroom
church. I kneel with
the other, restless
on the cracked leather
kneeler. I crave these
pillars of candle.
My mouth is avid; it
sings fidelis, fidelis.
My maa is in her
kitchen crooning
black-and-white film
songs that curl her
hennaed fingers
around the rolling pin’s
heavy back and forth.
My baba leans forward
in his chair, the Qur’an
open to the last
page, the dark words
blurring as his eyes close
to reconcile again the shapla-
shaped epitaph
on his father’s tombstone.
With my head bowed,
I whisper, “Amar naam
Tarfia,” until it is
a prayer that grows.
I help stack the hymnals
higher; I cup the candle
away. I cry out, “Bismillah!”
before I disrobe.
Tarfia Faizullah