Mecca stole from me my God.
I still remember the worshiper
whose blissful, teary face in the crowd
ripped from me any notion of my right and wrong
being yours or being for any one.
Hajji, looking nowhere near the de-belief-ing of a teenage girl,
he was following suit, speaking to God in the most private of terms.
The camera panning over the crowd, I see for once:
I see that my conviction is their same conviction, and I have no right.
My misplaced judgment still entangling my ankles as it sinks to the ground,
I take my bible out of my purse.
Later, I will take it out of my suitcase and place it on my bookshelf,
only to touch it tentatively once maybe twice again,
wistful for the confidence in another but resentful still.
I wish I’d be able to find that man to ask him what he was praying for,
I wish I’d be able to tell that man what he took from me,
and more importantly, tell him all that filled its place