When I Prayed with Farida Qader   Sitting against wood pressing hard pushing me forward as verbal waves ricochet hands clasped out of place under a steeple bearing no resemblance to praying with Farida Qader Taking cover under sky so ceaseless, captured in memory, the last time I covered; small little girl with a star patterned blanket over her head in a dark room after a nightmare She could not escape what I could overcome by waking. Farida Qader had screamed; no voice. She had run desperately in place, scars revealing her efforts upon skin the color of wet sand. Back lit by the glow of Venus resting above the ocean line she handed me coral silk as wind lifted the cloth of her hijab; floating, like gulls soar on a current. We had already washed with a wave polished stone. Speaking for me in contemplation, sun flew away forming the shadow I owned before my existence Asking for her- could she repatriate to the robbed land where her countrymen wait on rooftops to die from metallic rain? Perhaps I will find her again at Maghreb after I have reconciled myself with Allah, she may be kneeling on her hands and legs tucked under pushing through lighter grains the hue of linen falling in tones under the rising moon.       ©2006 Corey Habbas