On Canal Street our prayer
mats are slung over our shoulders.
We’re silent in our stroll the sunlight
holding us in spheres ephemeral safety.
Who protects us from this safe land?
Who kneels with us as bombs
plunge everywhere?
It’s Friday in the mosque.
We’re kneeling
as others drink wine.
As others
decide who we
are who
will kneel for us?
