A sujood after fajr as a form of recollection

Amina Akinola, Nigeria 

The moon ripped my eyes off the cloud

From the alcove of my father's shack

All was quiet, soft, and swoon.

My tongue quivered between the pages of the scripture, where God stresses the idiosyncrasy of death. I laid face-down, for a duration I was sweat-covered trying to release myself from the stench of memories, all that was left in the pure lull of nature. Death is the removal of all treasures, all that we wish to hold with our eyes before holding them in our hearts. from the numbers of empty masjids plastered with the stains of innocent blood to the rustle of winds in their different kinds of roars to the morning that came without the melodies of children and the sun that rose to dry the rotting bodies of our brothers left to litter across the street after waves of war. The honey that doesn't taste like one and the home that loses its attributes. From the flames that no longer keep us alive to the communities swallowed by a flood of war. I slipped a rosary between my thumb and index finger, kulhuAllahuu ahad for every fraction of treasure below the earth's surface. My mother said I could make grass grow and take the weed away every morning. I say my body is a land with the roots of yesterday and memories are the fertilizer that keeps me in connection, even if I uproot my weeds they come again like the dew of every morning. Every day, I attempt to make bricks out of my mouth, to build a poem for people who walk down the alleys, people who hold no weight of grief, and boys who are as peaceful as purple flowers. But, I think these types of people already have a song of victory dancing between their jaws, and they do not need poems but prayers like every other body that unfolds in my sujood after fajr. See, I know people who need poems more than prayers and I know those who need both. I try not to miss priority. I try to be a multicolored person, but, what's the use of several colors in a place where there is concrete darkness that overshadows your heart? I pledge to always carry a poem as plain as salt, what's the use of salt when the tongue is stale and burnt? I try not to put my head down after my fajr prayer for the consequences that originate. But, What is memory if not a demon that prayers cannot castigate? So we could touch the sky and pull the face of God "if this isn't haram" so we could be left with the bodies of other bodies in our body and water their past into poems.

Lexicon:

Sujood - prostration

Fajr prayer - Muslim morning prayer, before sunset.

Amina Akinola Frontiers VIII, is a creative writer from Nigeria. Her works are up on Lumiere review, Kalahari review, brittle papers, The Nigeria News direct poetry column, Icefloe press, sledgehammer magazine, and others. Tweet @Akinola51