As I Pray by Sanna Wani

[Islam, /’isla:m/; Arabic: “submission, reconciliation, surrender.”]

I tap my knees on the ground twice , &
close my eyes ( even though they’ve told me
not to ) , & the thick fall of my hair has come
undone under my dupata , & I can’t tell
where is cloth & where is curl , & there are
dreams here under my knees , under this wood ,
beneath this house , & the house built behind it .

I ask my father why he taps his knees ,
& he says not sure , he says
I love those dreams even if 
I don’t understand them ,
& understands what ( after all )
but some kind of healing .

then I ask my mother , driving to
Nani’s house , & she turns her answer
to the paddy fields , & confesses
I will never find this kind of forgiveness
anywhere else —
& forgiveness for what ( after all ) but
some kind of healing .

one evening , they ask me to recite
a few words of it in the garden ,
under the ash tree and the red mountains ,
& my knees shatter in their sockets ,
& my hair falls from its root ,
because I say no ,
prayer is not a memory ,
prayer is a question .

they smile , put my bones back together ,
sew my hair to my scalp , tuck a
curl behind my ear , & say
asking for what ( after all )
but some kind of healing .

This poem was featured in Issue 07 of Canthius and, most recently, Best Canadian Poetry 2020.

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Sanna Wani lives in Toronto. She loves daisies.