I wake up in Mainz.
I ride my squeaking bike to university.
I drag my friends to a new café around the corner.
I give my family the weekly updates over the phone,
listen to them talk while scrolling through Instagram,
I eat pasta with pesto, as if it were the only dish I know to cook.
I fall asleep on a pile of homework.
I dream of going for a walk along the beach.
I wake up.
She wakes up in Mainz.
She goes to work and comes back exhausted.
She meets me at the café around the corner.
Without her church, she can’t remember how to pray.
There is no sermon to guide her.
She feels lost.
She falls asleep with her hand outstretched.
She dreams of the carpet in the worship hall.
She wakes up.
She wakes up in her public apartment.
She fills her stomach with food to dampen the crash.
She walks all the way to the church before realizing it’s closed.
No one sponsors the Narcotics Anonymous group,
no looking into another struggling person’s eyes.
But she walks to the hospital.
She watches the headlights on her ceiling all night.
She wakes up in Karaj,
Her hijab stays stowed in the top shelf of her closet.
She only remembers for a moment the Morality Police, the rape, the murder.
She looks over her essay one last time before going to class.
On the way, she walks with her male friends, the sun on her hair.
She debates and critiques in the classroom, laughs openly.
She sleeps under the moon, on the roof.
She dreams of kissing her sister’s cheek at the airport.
She wakes up to the dawn.
Eight billion need other people to wake up,
all seeking sense and reason.
They need to care for each other,
to prosper and develop,
to smile and to run the next lap.
Eight billion can’t go their own way.
Will heroes be enough to replace gods?
Who am I to say?
To whom can I pray?
