RAMADAN SONNETS

THE SLEEPING TWO-YEAR-OLD AWAKENS AT SUHUR

In the dim before-dawn
meal-preparing, in the four a.m. microwaving
flurry of father, mother, sisters
setting spoons, stirring soup,
suddenly here comes the little guy
descended from seventh sleep
when he shouldn't even be awake,
small and confused at the kitchen door:
"What are you doing, Mommy?"
His eyes so full of j'accuse:
"You mean, you do this-this-eating thing
without me, while I sleep?
You mean I am not the center
of your night as of your day?"
This is what his big eyes say-
It's the primal scene of Ramadan,
it is baby's first
somebody-feed-me-now blues

MOHJA KAHF

RAMADAN'S FIRST RUNG

In Ramadan, food becomes clay,
becomes plaster, has no sway
over me during the day

I can work with it in the kitchen
sculpt it into meals, and not even
think of dipping a hand in,

as if it were for other creatures,
not human, not with my features:
Desire, you have no reach here!

I don't even remember,
by mid-month, to feel hunger
at the sunset cue, only wonder

that I once lived in its clutches
or thought of it as much as
I used to before my crutches

were whisked out by Ramadan
"I'm free," I think, "Bring it on!"
"I'm free!" I think-but I'm wrong

This is only the first illusion-
No vice worsts self-delusion
I'm still in the realm of confusion,
as the truth dawns and stuns:
I have not even begun
to climb Ramadan's first rung

MOHJA KAHF