Ways of Looking (Emerging Writer's Contest Winner: POETRY)
Every prayer is a heron at first glance,
the marbled neck of someone
indistinguishable from this house.
Every figure wildreed unbelonged cursive
is a morning’s mound of sugar.
This mosque is a wood
where I sit cross-legged,
Where I mirror my mother’s
This mosque is a cut of apple—
I mistake each slice for a mouth
—I mistake the back of every head
for my father;
red gala, ambrosia, faces arranged into
He is here with cloves packed
into his wounds.
I am here because there are wounds
packed into my wounds.
In my language, every line is a fallen thing.
In my other language,