[349 words]
—for Elizabeth Rose Shaffer
A beggar asked for food from A’isha while she had some grapes. She told someone to take him one grape. He began to look in amazement. A’isha said, “Are you amazed? How many atoms’ weights do you see in this grape?” [cf. Qur’an 99:7].
She
brings
my fingers hither / and
thrusts them to the bump on her head / with trembling
hands, conscious / as only the righteous are / of every
imperfection. I tell her / it is a raisin, a zabiba—a mark
/ that forms where the brow is laid / in long conjunction with earth, /
and before her Sarahine smile / can take flight in scoffing laughter /
I add it is a miracle / that one who has never made sujood /
a day in her life should grow / such a fruit—suggest it
as Muslim / stigmata. Her eyebrows curl /
like vines, and she leads my hand / past bump after bump,
determined / (a far better Muslim than she knows) / to rely on no
signs or wonders. / But there are signs in all things / for those who believe,
and I tell her that, / should it please her, I will describe / the numerological sign-
ificance / of the difference of every raisin’s / angle from the plane of the
physical / rug—the spiritual excellence / to which each, in its offset, refers. / In this, I
tell her, I depart / somewhat from the common doctrine, / but there have been enough
Muslim scholars / devoted to Pythagoras / that I shall not be alone. / At this, she
laughs, and the angels / take their leave. She tells me / I am remarkable. By
this, / she means incredible. By that, / she means full of shit, and she’s right.
/ There is no callus, no dryness, / no raisin. The sweat on her brow / beads like
white grapes / grown fresh from paradise— / like I, like the Prophet ﷺ,
could reach / them and nourish the world without end
/ —but if I told her this, she would not /
believe. Instead, I lay / the clay
of my body at her dusty / feet
while she sleeps, dream /
of the beauty
of her dark eyes,
/ press my forehead
again / to the turbah
of a callused heel.
Rozalija Grace, UE, is a Canadian writer and translator with roots in Russian Alaska and Franco-Ontario. Her poems, short stories, and essays (in English, French, and Russian) have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and featured in Room, Rust & Moth, So to Speak, and elsewhere, while her translations of early Soviet poetry have been nominated for Best Literary Translations. She currently serves as a poetry editor for Psaltery & Lyre and lives in the Pays-d’en-Haut as the fiancée of a great American novelist. You can read more at her website and on Bluesky @rozalijagrace.com.
