Ramadan is listening
by which I mean we learn to attend
leaving tongues curled against palates
reluctant to come unstuck
and clutter silence.
It cups its hand around an ear
knows hollow and resounding
like the back of its ample hand
which, palm up, brings feasts
only mouths that stay closed
can taste.
This month is an aunt
that bustles into your house
compliments you on the rugs then
rolls up her sleeves and does the dishes
before you can tell her to stop.
She pours nitric acid down your drains
the ones you’ve coated with cooking oil
pulls out books from your shelves to dust
with an “Ooh, that looks interesting,”
the ones that have bookmarks left
halfway in from six years ago
and now you pick them up where you left off
or give them away.
This matriarch gives your kids a rocket
for leaving their wet towels on the floor
and though she frays your nerves
you’re thankful someone has the pluck
to say so and still be missed
when she leaves.
Ramadan is listening,
gathering stories to go away with,
keeping them ‘til next year
in her voluminous
coat pockets,
more spacious
than the distance
from here
to forever.