Her Prayer Mat

Green, the colour
of Mohammed.

Green, the sacred
colour of paradise.

Its tassled edges
fringe the niche -

the mihrab - that points
the way. The arch-shape,

embossed like a bulging
church candle, is a

door lock - a portal
to a sparkling green

universe spinning with
domes, minarets, lanterns,

muqarnas. I ask:
"Why don't you pray ?"

and you avoid my
question, vacuum your

prayer mat, set it
neatly at the end

of our bed. Once
(secretly) I knelt on it,

felt guilt swell as my
unbelieving knees

came down to rest,
uncertain like my

unbelieving palms and
unbelieving forehead

of where to be placed,
resisting the angry inner

charge that would have me
bow, supplicate myself.

"No need for a prayer mat"
you say. "Or a pew.

Or a wall. I pray
wherever I want."

Yes - pray wherever:
pray with the vacuum,

pray in our bed, pray
on angry unbelieving knees.