The lung of the grenade
exhaled
onto our chests, and
muslims have been
spill
ever since. 

To be muslim
is to always have
our own
flow out
of our fingertips

A prayer is scooped
out my mouth
and is bent
to signal
a rifle,
a bomb,
the destruction
of a village in a
six second loop.

A spill [muslim] 
should be
contained in not
a paper towel or
chalk outline
but the
picket fence, 
the bedroom door, 
a hijab or mookanah
worn within
said bedroom

anywhere
outside of that,
our silhouettes pour
out of our bodies
into
the streets, 
the sands, 
the seas,

smear across
walls,
floorboards, 
ceilings,
headlines,
ballots, 
then stain
the same surfaces.

We evaporate
after all
the fires.
The ocean's teeth
is my ancestry.
The sidewalk
is my extended family.
All my steps become
a community meeting,
my deep breath
a call to prayer,
the breeze brushing
against my arms
a hug from a sister-auntie
I will
never meet

A white man
inhales
3/4ths of
all our grandmothers
into his lungs, 
exhales
what his body didn't
take this time
onto my chest
as he shouts 

why the fuck
are these muslims
everywhere?