Being Muslim

Hayan Charara

O father bringing home crates

of apples, bushels of corn,

and skinned rabbits on ice.

O mother boiling lentils in a pot

while he watched fight after fight,

boxers pinned on the ropes

pummeling each other mercilessly.

And hung on the wall where we

ate breakfast an autographed photo

of Muhammad Ali. O father

who worshipped him and with

a clenched fist pretended to be:

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.

O you loved being Muslim then.

Even when you drank whiskey.

Even when you knocked down

my mother again and again.

O prayer. O god of sun.

God of moon. Of cows

and of thunder. Of women.

Of bees. Of ants and spiders,

poets and calamity.

God of the pen, of the fig,

of the elephant.

Ta’ Ha’, Ya Sin, Sad, Qaf.

God of my father, listen:

He prayed, he prayed, five times a day,

and he was mean.