I can hear its ululations within me,
its
sibilant screams,
amplified by my
horror,
channeled through
my dreams.
I need to speak of it
as I
feel it growing within:
Something sessile,
senescent,
surreal.
But I fear no one will listen to me,
no
one will be able to hear.
I kneel.
There is no
qiblah* in front of me.
There are no
altars near:
Prayer is not my intention,
but I hate
inaction,
and I feel ashamed of my inability
to speak.
And questions of identity will remain inurned
in silence and faith.
Hope dims,
honesty,
and sanity.
Many years from now, I am sure,
I will look back
upon these moments,
still
uncertain, still insecure,
and I
will blame distances and walls,
but
never my battered sense of humanity,
for
my failure to cry out,
to
shriek.
* The Qiblah: an Arabic
word which denotes the direction of Makkah (Mecca), the direction towards which
practicing Muslims turn to perform the ritualistic prayer.