Ramadan
I notice the light differently
the morning brightness, warm, the afternoon
stark, and as the light lessens,
a sense of release, the long wait
meant to lead to what I hear at half past six
in the Imam’s call to prayer –
A voice gathers the faithful, and me
listening, listening as I see too what’s happening
so far away in Ukraine, and recall my rage
when a student kept a picture of Putin
on his Zoom screen after the army’s invasion.
The days of Ramadan humble us
to the pangs of want – to feel what the body feels
without water, or food, to know
the hours from dawn and the slow folding
of sunlight as geography: There are vales, seas,
impossible crossings [knees will give
in, stomachs rebel, you will stumble, envy
the dead] until night leaves the shapes
of day to memory, what was taken away
is what we feed on, the teachings
of daylight reduced to increments
cautiously entered into, after time in basements
and underground shelters where children still sing
and play through the fast and long praying, God
stays unseen, but for the want and what
it teaches of the desert and its light.
Adrianne Kalfopoulou is the author of three poetry collections, most recently A History of Too Much (2018), and a book of essays, Ruin Essays in Exilic Living (2014). She currently teaches at RITDubai, where she is an Associate Professor of Creative Writing and English.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 