By Yasmine Rukia
Cells cry out on the day of reckoning &
Allah commands them to betray their homes.
Every curve & angle of us was a sign to the end of times;
crop tops & hip-huggers,
heeled sneakers busting our feet,
but we were too high and mighty to hear the trumpet;
on the shingled rooftops, the coal-laden train-tracks,
with our leather seats pushed all the way back
in charming gas station boys’ cars
driving down date-colored streets
fast-lane time-warp:
Maghrib sunset fades into twinkling fajir dawn.
We blew smoke-rings out of our piercings,
turned our water into wine,
their money into time,
floated like Djinn into our bedrooms before teta stirred.
The water-jug is always brimming
full of imam Ali’s roar,
& no matter how many times you spin that vinyl track,
Allah has blessed
My body as the oldest mecca
The angels on my shoulders circumvent. ■
Yasmine Rukia is a first generation Lebanese-American performing poet, short story writer, and typist, born and raised in Dearborn, Michigan.
Cover image via flickr user toastal (Creative Commons).
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