after Christchurch
I sit on the floor
of the masjid for Jummah
my colleague
holds her palm in mine,
her thumb rocking gently
across the topography of my hand
/
she pauses
to catch a tear
in the trail of her scarf
I don’t watch
as it sinks into the mustard yellow tassels
leaks into the fabric
and makes a home
between the stitches
/
someone asks “what is the world coming to”
it has always been coming,
barreling down train tracks
sparks screeching
with the urgency of an air strike
droning on its way home
/
we’ve practiced this exercise in running
while mourning, it is not a drill
the horsepower of its fury is raging
onwards, always moving
/
maybe this is why
she does not stop
rubbing her thumb up and down
across my skin
as if this is the only way
she can hold me
and herself
like comfort
is only there in movement
