THE PRAYER

By Nadia Irshād

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The prayer of the oppressed is rung through cotton.

IT IS RUNG.

Can you imagine the sound of the loudest bell?

IT IS A VOICE.

That pulses through the earth, the resonance of clay.

BLOOD IS RED.

It is red for a reason.

The colour reads like speech, there is a reckoning.

Your pain, subtlety does not go unnoticed.

WE ALL KNOW IT GOES ONE OF TWO WAYS.

I heard a little girl speak to the sky and say,

may your denial come back to encircle you in its thorny snare

that tightens as you spar with it, slowly

it will wring your tongue and shoot through your 'ayn

may your hate face you in the mirror

in your dreams during the darkest part of the hour

may that darkness twist your face in one turn

upside down like your words

all lies

Then she dropped her head and sang,

but then mercy

then mercy

so sweet

the hummingbird