campus autumn

1

He doesn’t have a beard
but calls my name on Harbourd
while I listen to a nasheed
and walk to poetry.
Pale yellow leaves crunch
underfoot while my mind flies
with pigeons
into the mouths of Egyptians.
He waves
and his stubble beams at me.

I wandered off the sidewalk into
oncoming traffic with a mind, absent
as usual. For a moment
I thought the trees were on fire.
but they were only red
and little cherry-coloured flowers
grab my fingers and ask me to play
ring-around-the-rosy.

2

The sun is singing nasheeds with me
and twirling around the sky,
playing ring-around-the-rosy with flowers.

And spurts of grass, green and gangly
sip sun-tea while
he calls me to prayer, to success.
The voice of the muathin dances in my throat,
a melody that makes my ears smile.