I.
Here and there the sound
of a dumbek can be heard through
the toes of this third story apartment.
The noise is an ever-arcing crescent,
the beat waxing and waning:
doum doum doum

I imagine the man: sweaty palms, and
seasoned fingertips gliding over the smooth
surface of the leather.
A thousand years of Islamic history and culture
wanting to be heard
and remembered.

II.
You bang the pots as loud as
any three-year old with chubby hands.
A thousand days of exuberance
waiting to be exorcised from the body
like some uncontrollable demon.

“Mommy, look” you say;
and you want to be heard,
so your feet stamp and shake the floor -
ten tiny toes thrumming the carpet’s surface
like dancers in a harem.

III.
You are the language I speak
and we won’t understand each other
with dry tongues.
But sometime after midnight
when bellies are full
and the laundry is folded neatly,
and your voice is a breath,
you’ll shuffle out, sleepy-eyed
whisper, “Mommy, look”.

Palms sweaty and fingertips grasping yours,
we’ll remember to turn off the lights,
leaving shadows on the walls
and crawl back in bed
like the slow beat of a drum.

09/12/2009

Author's Note: Published in the Winter 2009-2010 Vol. 2, Num. 3 issue of The Tower Journal (published as Jasmine Mann).

Posted on 03/27/2010
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