A holy month 

The past month was sanctified by those searching Mohammed’s traces 

in our time, still, and recurrently so. 

While the moon grew and waned, 

silence came over the lands 

and abstinence from temptation 

to recenter around the Truth. 

I partook in smaller ways,

by praying along and fasting twice, 

by celebrating Iftar with Iranian dates,

by learning the Arabic weather. 

The will was alive, out there and in here, 

but in other parts, the days were torn apart,

and families too,

by violence of those who drag the Name 

along for alibi sake 

and nothing, nothing more. 

And now routines begin anew 

perhaps in the context of a more 

altered, sobered understanding 

of what any or all of this ought to mean.

My urgent call in this night 

portrays the need for more, above all,


with perhaps the creator or creators,

neighbors all and strangers, 

and ask what service to one another

really looks and feels like, 

and if it involves taking off our shoes 

and washing each other’s feet. 

Because after all, 

the paths are all dusty,

from the desert winds and distance,

and we are all 

still searching.