Harram
my mother was 100 miles south of Death Valley when
Amba Karras grazed her belly
you’re going to give us Antony
the monastery was modest still
a couple coptic churches peppered
across a few dozen acres of the California desert
You are the treasure
Of Goodness and
Giver of Life
life is not safe in Masr
martyrdom is mundane
America is a place where we can pray away from persecution
away from static poverty in service of the Lord
Your peace, our Savior;
Save us
And spare our souls
my father was proud of my skin when I was born
my mother says he showed me to everyone in the hospital
a brown man with a son white as an ostrich egg
the American dream
Merciful eyes
At my weakness
At my disgrace
And my humility
Amba Karras traced a cross with oil on our wrists and foreheads the last time my father visited the dayr
He tried to kiss Amba Karras’s hand
but the bishop pulled away before his lips warmed meek flesh
we pushed home in hush
the sun sunk into my skin by the time i was five
my father felt betrayed
he hated the tint of his own flesh
how it was resurfacing in his kin like a bloated corpse
Amen
