CHARLES GARABEDIAN
Misdirection

Five bucks short of indigent,
I had no choice but to let
creeping hunger growls
drive me to the Woonsocket Mosque
on Ramadan.  A room of arabs
jumped to sell me their faith--
Conversion only cost a few words
back then. Mohammed is the last
Prophet, peace be up on him.  Allah,
the all-merciful, all-knoweth,
Allahu akbar...
Then that noon
before the sun went down,
I purified my limbs
under a rusted sink, snorting
water to cleanse my nose for silat.
I stood erect like a hard-on over
the green rug
as the scholar recited Surahs
I mumbled back.  Under their trance,
or them under mine, my head met
rug fibers that smelled of feet.
I could smell the food
being set down to break their fast.
Mounds of chicken sizzled under flames,
stuffed meatloaf.  Tossed salads
and sugar cakes, fresh pocket bread.
Rice heaped over rich figs wrapped
in leaves.  All the juicy enticements
barely broke my humble
act, as I scooped scarcely
enough so the scholar
put more in my plate and offered
seconds.  It went on everyday
until the last day of Ramadan passed
and I split through the wood-grain
doors, laughing home.