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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