Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Yahya Frederickson
for the house’s more private stations,
I see her sitting at the table with coffee
while her prayer rug faces the uncluttered corner.
Her accent still scurries past me,
but her smile always stops to drink.
Tomorrow, the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday.
The daughters of your aunt will visit, wearing pastel dresses.
In the hall, your mother hints to you one of them
for marriage. Which one, I can only dream.
A month from now we will be in a foreign land
where eyes flicker at us on the horizon,
and this holiday is branded as innovation.
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 65