On Canal Street     our prayer

mats are slung over our shoulders.

We’re silent in our stroll     the sunlight

holding us in spheres     ephemeral safety.

Who protects us from this safe land?

Who kneels with us as bombs

plunge everywhere?

It’s Friday in the mosque.

We’re kneeling

as others drink wine.

As others

decide who we

are     who

will kneel for us?