Mattress Crucifixion

I care excessively. I care for meanings behind slight expressions, I care about language and how the words seem to recall the taste of sweet bakhlava as it melts on the core of my tongue; ever meticulous of the ratio of vowels to consonants; ever cautious of eyes that ravage hungrily in search of desire. I care about hinges of books and offer compensation to accidental paper tears. I care about the golden hue of sunsets dancing on glass window panes, the way it prods the edges of my lips into a smile on my way home. Home-— I care about home, and family, of relatives I've met only on the occasion of travels and whom after promising to keep in contact, I've let down. I care about strays and tightly chained horses, of squirrels that go days unfed, of people whom my short memory has wistfully forgotten. Of this, and so much more.

And so, I go to sleep every night, surrendered, my arms pinned by my sides, crucified on the cross of my mattress, vaguely aware that my caring has always been internal. 

My inevitable death will have the mantra of "overburdened" written on my gravestone; told to the nosy neighbors who's only ideal is knowing, sung to children I never bore. A caution; a reprimand to those who play on the brink of lending a hand, or turning a blind eye.

Woe Is Me

Dear, dear self,

I am well aware of the comfort of your current state this well into the night. But, allow me to write in this moonlight before it shifts. I have been burdened. And to sleep upon the plush of quilted pillows, wrapped in silk and cotton, when I, your heart am here, wailing in agony, silently thumping against your chest, in desperate plea of your arousal. Self, do you not deem this an injustice?

My strings have gone stale and the specks on me have darkened and dimmed my sight. I pine for mirages, so seemingly short in hopes, an arms-length away..

Then, again, when one lusts for the farthest of galaxies and falls upon the divinest star closest to earth, his heart is nothing but a carcass, a shattered shard of living room wall art. Nothing, but crumbled and defeated.

I desire nothing but the wetness of your tongue with His name. Nothing but, that your eyes, had they glanced upwards to marvel in the lowest of the seven skies, except that they return thankful in His provision. Had you turned the knob of any door, clasped the handle of any gate, would you remember to proceed in His name?

Self, I implore your mercy. I am stricken with self-pity, that I, your heart cannot escape the bounds that have come to be your ribs and my prison.

I love you very much so, yet my fear for you on the Day when I speak against you equates, if not subdues,  my endearment for you, oh, my self.

My Lord! Woe to me!
Woe is me.

July's Tempest

I'd been acquainted with a lovely girl, whose eyes served as the means of replenishment for every man who was stricken with the worst of God's thirst. Kneeling, where we'd met, I held my palms out for her tears. For I, was a woman, in urgent need of water.

Every tale of woe is best accompanied by July's tempest. Amid it all, on the steps of the shelter, we remained, filling the hollows of our hearts, and innards of voids we knew not about.

Alas, desiring the warmth of the furnace, I rose. Immediately I was brought to halt by a hand over mine and a voice nearest to my ear, "an angel sent from above, you are."

"Oh, dear. I am most certain, had you been in the soles of these shoes I bear, you would have acted in a manner far more noble than I."

"No one has ever held me like you have. In your absence, I fear my flesh will recognize the skin it embodies no longer. I am in despair and I know not where I will be in state and mind after your departure."

A glance at the light-streaming corridor and another in the eyes of the grief-stricken damsel. And then, "Do you wish for me to stay?"

She cast away her tears, and faced the direction in which I stood holding the hem of my dress above the point of my ankles, so as for it not to be drenched in rainwater. She cast away her tears and faced me with a stony countenance. "I wish not to burden you."

"Then burden me not."

Even now, the wind whistles her name. To drive me beyond sanity, or to taunt, I know not. I know not of her name, nor the being existing behind the title I obligingly carry.

Each cockcrow since, I have searched all but every horizon the sun ascends from. And how mystical is the work of God that my fate, presumingly, lies when rays shine forth from the West.

27th Night of Ramadan

To kneel in submission until your knees grow a pair of lips and plead forgiveness. To expand the length of your arms in hopes that your fingertips will caress the iron gates of the seventh heaven. Or until the sky descends, bashful in your self-pity, hospitable to your desolation. If the same rain that brings to life the dead, soils your palms, and souls your heart, know the lightening strikes in rejoice to your being forgiven.

It's the 27th night of Ramadan, and every other drop of rain may very well seal the doorway of hellfire for the one who's face is salt, and eyes is hallow of sincerity, of love, or of guilt.

I pray we receive our books in our right hands. Ameen.

Love Leads to Hell

And when his Lord asked him of his prayer he said: "If my feet were anchored to the earth, and puss leaked from beneath my nails, I would have not minded had I been standing with a heart that was sound to You, O My Lord!"

Then his Lord asked him, even though his awareness encompassed the entirety of creation, "where was your heart other than with Me?"

He cowered with resignation then, realizing his justification in life was not exemplifiable with God. They always said love was an excuse to every imaginable flaw.

"I loved her. Now take me to hell."

Telepathy and Saints

Have you ever thought someone was having a telepathic conversation with you? Speaking just in minds and laughing over transmitted memories? Get this. I was gifted a book by a friend overseas, who's title I haven't revealed since, and whilst I read I fell utterly in love with a character that I sensed was alive, somewhere. At times, I would read a sentence and complete the next without even reading it. I gaped for days on end at how beautifully I connected my inner most self with this poor, but spiritual soul named Shaykh Ali. In conversations, I would often quote him and when asked who he was, I fell silent. How could a figment of one's imagination be anything but?

Months later, I came upon an article about telepathy and in it, I found Shaykh Ali from the book, in the form of a person who lived in the time of Sayyidina Muhammad sallallahu alayhi wasallam. His name was Uwais Al-Qarni. 

Rasulullah sallallahu alayhi wasallam in a hadith al Qudsi, recorded by Abu Hurayra said:

"Allah subhanahu wa ta'ala, loves of His creation the God-fearing, the pure in the heart, those who are hidden, and those who are innocent, whose face is dusty, whose hair is unkempt, whose stomach is empty, and who, if he asks permission to enter to the rulers, is not granted it, and if he were to ask for a gentle lady in marriage, he would be refused, and when he leaves the world it does not miss him, and if he goes out, his going out is not noticed, and if he falls sick, he is not attended to, and if he dies, he is not accompanied to his grave."

The sahabah, in awe, inquired: "O Messenger of Allah! How can we find such a person?"

"Uwais Al-Qarni," his blessed lips replied. 

Eager to know of this person, for his regard in the eyes of the most noble man of mankind was indeed high, they asked, "and who is this Uwais Al-Qarni?"

"He is dark skinned, wide shouldered, and of average height. His complexion is close to the color of earth. His beard touches his chest. His eyes are always looking downwards to the place of prostration, and his right hand is on his left hand. He weeps about himself with such a flow of tears that his lips are swollen. He wears a woolen garment and is known to the people of the heavens. If he makes a promise in the Name of Allah, he keeps it. Under his left shoulder there is a white spot. When the Day of Resurrection comes and it is announced to the slaves, “Enter the Garden,” it will be said to Uwais, ‘Stop and intercede.’ Allah, subhanahu wa ta'ala, will then forgive them to the same number as are the people of Rabi’a and Mudhar. So, O Umar and O Ali, if you can find him, ask him to intercede for you. Then Allah will forgive you."

Night became day, and day turned to night, ten years passed, and they searched for him, without ever coming upon him. The same year, Umar bin Al-Khattab passed away, he climbed the mountain overlooking Makkah and hollered, "O people of people of Yemen! Is there anyone up there with the name of Uwais!"

An elderly man rose, and called back, "We do not know who this Uwais that you inquire about is, but my brother’s son is called Uwais. He is too unimportant to be asked about, and too poor and submissive that he should be raised up to your level. He is our camel-herder, and he has no worth amongst our people."

Umar repeated his question, to which the old man replied, confused at how such a lowly man could ever be sought out by the Ameer al Mui'mineen, "Why do you ask about him, ya Ameer al Mui'mineen, for by Allah there is not one of us who is more foolish and more needy than he."

Umar wept at his ignorance and recalled the hadith al Qudsi from his sallallahu alayhi wasallam's truthful lips, before he passed away sallallahu alayhi wasallam. 

"On the Mount of ‘Arafat," the old man said dismissively.

Umar and Ali, then quickly went to Mount ‘Arafat, where they found a man praying under a tree, with camel grazing around him. "As`slamu Ạleykum," they called out.

The man hastened to finish his prayer and then responded, "Wạ'leykum As`slam."

"Who are you?" Umar and Ali asked.

"A herdsman of camels and a hired workman for a tribe," he replied matter of factly, as if the position had been chosen by none other than Allah.

Unsatisfied, they said, "we do not ask about your occupation, but what is your name?"

"Abdullah."

"Every being upon the heavens and the earth are the slaves of Allah! What is the name your mother named you?"

"What do you want from me, you two?"

"The messenger of Allah once spoke to us about a Uwais Al-Qarni, his description as far as we can see fits your characteristics. Show us if you have the white mark beneath your shoulder, if you bear it, it is certainly you whom we have been searching for!"

Uwais uncovered the woolen cloth from his shoulder, and there, in all it's glory, lay the white mark Rasulullah sallallahu alayhi wasallam described. Umar and Ali were rejoiced, and they hugged, kissed and embraced him, saying, "We declare that you are Uwais Al-Qarani! So ask for forgiveness for us and May Allah forgive you!"

His answer, may the Lord have mercy on his soul, is as blessed as he, himself. He says, "I cannot even forgive myself, nor one of Adam’s children. But there are on land and in the seas believing men and women, Muslim men and women, whose invocations to Allah are answered. Go and seek them."

Then, he continued, "O you two, you know about me and I know about my state, but who are you?"

Ali gestured to Umar, "this is Ameer al Mui'mineen, and I am Ali ibn Abu Talib."

In a matter of moments, they were acquainted and Umar bin Al Khattab in departure said, "Your place is here until I return to Madinah, and may Allah have mercy upon you. Then, I will bring you help from my provision and some of my clothes. This has been the meeting place between you and me."

To which he replied, "Ya Ameer al Mui'mineen, there will be no other meeting place, in the knowledge of Allah, between you and me, but this one. So tell me, what should I do with your provision, and what should I do with your clothes? Do you not see that I am wearing a woolen gown and a woolen wrapper, so when do you see me tearing them? Or do you see that my sandals are worn out and torn? When do you see me out wearing them? Between your hand and mine there is a higher barrier which cannot be crossed by a weighty person. So leave these things, and Allah will have mercy upon you.”

Umar, furious with himself, and guilt struck, thrust his stick into the Earth and shouted, "O would that Umar had not been born by his mother, and that she had been sterile!"

Umar and Ali then returned to Madinah and Uwais returned to his tribe with the camels he had herded. Soon thereafter, Uwais decided to leave his occupation as a herdsman and go to Kufah. When Umar heard of his plans, he offered to write a letter to Kufah's governor for him, and Uwais declined saying, "I would rather be with the people who are near to my heart."

And he was indeed, with those near to his heart, until Allah subhanahu wa ta'ala decided to take him back to Himself.

Flipping pages of history in reverse, Rasulullah sallallahu alayhi wasallam once said, after being asked if he had ever met this Uwais Al-Qarni he speaks so fondly about, "No, he never watched me physically, but spiritually, he met me."

Similarly, Uwais said, "I didn’t see the Prophet physically, but in every moment, of every day, I was with him during his life."

In one occasion, he sallallahu alayhi wasallam said, "I feel the breath of my friend from the land of Yemen."

And I conclude to say I, too, feel the breath of my friend, Shaykh Ali, who I am yet to meet. 

Unearthly Sensation

I want to mold in the carpet of God's house in it's divine vacancy
I want to awaken when sleep is most encompassing
I want to converse with a deity of sublime presence
I want Him to assure me with analogies—
that I will be as Abraham was to Him

Here..

I want to scream Saba´ El Kheyr and have angels streaming light answer the hollow of my echo
I want to line my bracelets and make them holy between the beading of my thumb and palm
I want to twist the band of my ring and make dawāf in it's equivilance
I want to recite until my throat goes raw and sleep with a quivering chest as a lullaby
I want to prance around and apologize when I step on the old woman who passed away when she was closest to her Lord

Her Embraces Were Enough

Trotting along, kicking dust all the while inhaling the senses that surrounded me; this was my favorite childhood pastime. On one of these days, I came upon a man, though I must admit I had heard him before I saw who's face belonged to such noise. My bare innocence lured me to his wooden front door and I knocked before I even thought of my reasoning for being there.

Behind the wall, I heard his footsteps creaking the floorboards as he made his way to the door. Moments later, I made out his eye from the "peeping hole" we so often used in our dares. "Who goes there," his voice bellowed and in fright I almost scurried away.

"Me," I said meekly as if my voice would be recognizable to him. The door was flung open, and in his gigantic 6ft. looming build, my heartbeat quickened to a pace where my fear for the explosion of my chest made me pray I would be invisible. That he would just turn around and go back inside. That I was just dreaming, and soon he would trample me over and I'd wake to the sound of my own screaming.

But he didn't– instead he greeted me warmly and urged me into his cluttered home. I remember scanning the many shelves with colorful shawls and slightly open boxes and I wondered what lay inside of them. As we made our way into his red alternating tan living room, I heard a wheezing in the room we had just passed. Excusing himself, he pointed to the tea and date cookies on the kitchen island, silently telling me to help myself. I nodded and sat where I was.

The croaking ensued, followed by a comforting 'shhh'. I concluded that his wife was very ill, and thus was the state of his home due to this very fact.

After what seemed like centuries, he emerged from the bedroom, one hand gripped around the knob, closing it silently behind himself, and the other wound around his shoulder, rubbing gently.

"What's the matter," I asked, dubiously.

"My mother is very ill."

His face was depicted so solemnly, anyone who hadn't sat this close to notice his heavy breathing could easily mistake him for a sculpture. Unknowing of what to say, I sat still, hands clenched in my lap. When the silence became eerily unnerving, I asked, "will she ever get better?"

To which he replied, "not unless I get worse."

"I don't understand."

"Let me tell you of something, perhaps one day it will be of benefit to you in ways money cannot."

I sat still.

"When you hug your mother, you're prone to feeling lighter, happier. Do you know why this is?"

I shook my head.

His eyes were on the opened window behind me, as if he were speaking to an entity beyond my vision. "This is because at birth, in fear of your well-being, your mother takes burden of the pain, you otherwise would've been inflicted upon. As you grow older, every embrace, every tear that is cast by her fingers, this is her way of molding you with successes, but reprieving any one thing that may discourage you."

"But I'm sure you're aware that nothing in this world is free. Decades went by, and her hardships became more difficult as my problems progressed with intensity. University, work, getting married, having children. Happiness in any one of these was by the elation in her hugs. She drained everything but joy in our lives, and with time she grew weak."

He went on. "She is terribly sick, and I am afraid she will pass and a number of days will make us forget her blessed soul. So, in hopes of maintaining whatever little is left of her, I strain my arms massaging hers. Often do I envelop her with a replica of her affection for me. And often do I fail. No burden is given to me from her weight load. No sickness is cast upon me from her sickness. Thus, I have realized that no matter how much I wish to relieve her, she clasps onto our pain with an iron-grip of might. Only by her passing will she ever release it, but by then, of what purpose will it be."

I sighed noisily, unaware that I'd been holding my breath all the while he spoke. "May I see her?"

He rose from his seat, and I followed suit. At the foot of her bed, I climbed the bed steps, and her face came to view. I quickly glanced back, where the giant lingered in the shadows of the bedroom closet. He nodded, allowing me.

I touched her face, outlining her gaunt cheekbones with my fingertips, engulfing the cold that radiated off of her. I traced her thick, arched eyebrows, let the back of hand heat her eyelids. I made my way slowly down the narrow bridge of her nose. Then, I leaned down, robotically almost, like a ritual, and embraced her alongside her snow-colored blankets. The world seized then, I could swear time came to a halt. It was just a battle between bodies. Of warmth, of frostiness.

Soon enough, I became aware of the goosebumps that were prickling my skin. Of the penetrating stillness. The air grew thick, and I knew then, I had lost the war.

Hamza's Heart

[Note: My mother's name is Hinda] 

"Ikraan-yasha damaantood waa necbahay"

Chuckles. "Why mom?"

"Waa naagihii hamza beerkiisa kalaa bexeen"

"Laakin Hind aa taas ladah'i jiraay" 

The irony  

Omission

Split to halves I am.
Their telling is greater in grief than I.
Woe be to my arrogant nature, cast me to a mountain who's weight is as heavy as my disobedience.

I swear I will salt my cup and drink from it until I am satisfied with the bitterness of my state.
My tears are better kept with strangers whose eyes glint a mother's consolation.
But here, no savior will expel this distraught.

I am caught in eternity to suffer for a suffrage I endlessly oath to have been a mistake.
To commit it twice, would make me a fool;
thrice, a coward-
who's only tragedy was to love with an intensity that caused the origins of a feeling so stubborn to flee in shame.

To banish love is a weakness,
and to love too hard is one too.
I hope I find the greater of the weaknesses in You.

Complexity of Women

"Naag usabir ama kasabir."

Fibbing Mu´ālims

And the education system is a sum of lies. And I was taught "and" cannot begin a sentence. And years later, I read a book and the first word of the chapter was "and." And I showed this to my fifth grade teacher. She told me, "You can begin with 'and' if you're an expert."

And I asked, "Then why did my second grade teacher tell me I couldn't, ever. It was a rule, Miss." 

"Sometimes teachers lie so they don't expose the secrets of another teacher's lesson. This is one of them. You'll see." And I sauntered away more confused than I'll ever see. And now, I start all my sentences with 'and' because I know a secret the teachers will never know.

Replay Me

Level with the transcribed "middle" an anguish so hateful settles to become an exotic feeling of death. As if, the graves had brought every atom of soil to make my ribs one. Intertwined. And I wished upon the blinds that filtered the rising sun for the DJ to accidentally press 'rewind', and though everyone would groan in annoyance, I'd have a chance to replay myself.

Death

The night is dark.

In it's folds lies every mentioned evil, and I seek refuge in the lone star that was the cause of good since time began.

Their eldest daughter passed away- gruesomely taken to sleep with no beauty on behalf of he to awaken her with a touch-scent- so powerful it leaves their corpses toiling beneath rubble..

My mind is instilled to step over thresholds and inquire-to which the youngest of them all, responded "i hated her because she loved make-up and she only took the girls out, never me."

And the kittens purred in agreement—

 so,10 subtract null for a waste of a room that would be left behind as is because 'that's the way she would've wanted it'

She lurked in the periphery of guests who plead the bondage of a broken marriage,
dressed in white,
applying a misty substance to her face.


Memories vast, time fast- and with each, one slowly fades away

Dilemma, Dilemma

Once upon a time...

A man was happily married to his loving and overly-compassionate wife. The man was hard-working, earnest and generous. All day to and fro, he would do labor to satisfy the rights of his wife and home. In the times of his absense, the wife became well acquainted with the modest maid who was almost always busying herself dusting off the already dusted furniture in their domicile. They would converse all afternoon, bake goods together. By dusk, she retreated to her home in the village, where she slept till early the next morning when she returned to her daily duties as a maid.

The wife became very fond of her. One night, her husband came home to a warm furnace and a heated dinner. After settlement, and comfort, she proposed an idea to him.

"That is insane!" He exclaimed. "I cannot marry her! I cannot accompany anyone with you, dear."

"If it is I you wish to please," she replied, head downcast. "Then, you will be wed to our maid. Our company is faint when it is two. Amongst the three of us, we will build a bigger, more loving home!"

He stayed silent, eyes peering at the face that has secured every thought he ever spoke. 'How could I possibly add another beat alongside the pumping of my heart?' 

She leaned forward on her chair, fingers intertwined, eyes beaming,  "My love, do you not appeal to this idea? How fortunate would we be to share our intellect every night as a family? She IS a very splendid cook, might I add."

He sighed, and wearily reached for his wife's hand. "If this is what you wish, then I will obey."

The following day, the wife took to proposing her vision to the maid's parents. They gleamed with honor, unhesitant of any reproach. Shortly thereafter, the wife built her new companion a home close in range to her own, yet ensured with privacy.

The wedding took place, and time went by. They stitched together, laughed, ate dinner, and bonded over happenings as life went by. It was everything the elder wife conceived.

Amongst one of the blissful days, the latter-wed's mother came for a visit. Scoping the furniture, she clucked her tongue and shook her head. "My, my, dear. Have they really looped you in deceptiveness? You're living dirt for a man of his wealth. How lavish is her home, whilst he presents you her pass-me-downs. Have I raised you such that you'd accept anything readily."

With her mother's departure, she began to peer around with a new set of eyes. Criticism and envy took residence in the pit of her stomach and she awaited the arrival of her husband.

Fatigued and in need of solace, he came home and she welcomed him at the door with an outburst. He began to reassure her and promised he would replace everything she didn't find desirable.

"I do not find her desirable. Get rid of her, or get rid of me."

"Do not—"

"THAT IS MY ONLY REQUEST. IT IS EITHER I. OR HER!"

He stammered, and reached for her shoulder attempting to calm her. Jerking his arm away, she breathed in a shaky breath, said "And keep in my mind when you make your decision, that I am now bearing your child."

A Spirit Anew

I proclaimed my takbeer to flow warm the constricted blood in your vessels

melodious was my recitation, thus was your heart at ease

By rukoo´ you clung tight to your knees until it's hinges creaked
and your fingers became immune to sensation

with emergence, I swore I heard "blessings be to My thankful slave"

you threw yourself before me, unafraid of your head being cast to that of a mule's

you sought forgiveness in glorification because that was all you knew to utter

῾῾Rabbi ighfir li, Rabbi ighfir li.᾿᾿

And again your fingers wrapped around the thread-bordering edges of the salī and pleaded for a sound heart

By salām–
you were the imām
and I was praying in congregation to a drenched prayer mat and a spirit anew

The Moor's Last Sigh

I let my forearm rest atop my forelock, and breathed in the darkness that encompassed me. Silhouettes of my blinds reflected hallucinations of imprisonment. My flowerless vase sat atop my bookless sill. Vacant cold rushed in from sealed windows and I closed my eyes.

"Sara?"

"Yeah?" the voice on the receiver answered absent-mindedly.

"I gave up on the world..," I trailed off.

The void was filled with a concerned reassuring that I grew accustomed to. After a while, she breathed in, flustered. I do not blame her. Had it been me speaking to myself, I'd have choked sense into my senselessness.

"Why, Ikraan?"

"Because the world gave up on me."

And I emitted a deep, long, audible breath of defeat. Five centuries ago, this was The Moor's Last Sigh. Five centuries later, Abu `Abdallah instilled within me the honor of releasing what he held captive his entire life.