And My Cup Run-over.
Art by Susan Wilkinson on Unsplash.
And My Cup Run-over.
Today, I pray in twenty-one languages, the ones I unearth from my neighbor’s tongue. I smoke my room with seven incense sticks, to test the sight of God, the sight of him anytime my life dresses into a fog. I want him to see my blurry parts, my unshelled griefs, and watch his nose burst into sneezes—a quick baptism. I bathe and rub my skin with them as they dry into psalms. I felt God in me, he fondles me till I melt into a sacrosanct orgasm. Lord, I am faithful beyond the devil’s reach. I unmask my body before you, trace my scars, cremate me here— from hair to toe, let me drool on your thighs, seduce me until I release the jinxes in me. Lord, pour me on this goblet more of you, more of hallelujahs, more of celestial brews, bounteous graces and miracles until my cup run-over. Amen.
Art by Steve Johnson on Unsplash.
The Jesus Girl, The Mohammed Boy.
It wasn’t enough to tell you about the
miracle of abstract kisses I tattoo on your
caramel body anytime I watch you giggle.
Your lips crimson, refuses to wilt into a
sin like the way you wanted us to be—
holy. A Christian us, a Christian shed, a
Christian routine, and Christian babies.
Instead, I loved the masjid the way I
loved you. I, too, wanted a Muslim us; a
Muslim shed, a Muslim routine, and
Muslim babies. But this our love wasn’t
puissant enough to subdue our faiths to
our will. And the night we dispelled our
purple hearts, I knew God had mocked us.
Art from Europeana on Unsplash.
How We Begin Our Mo[u]rning.
In this place,
the muezzin’s sacred voice competes with bullets’ purrs.
One calls you
to prayer, the other calls you to glory; one way, we meet
God in his
finest shapes. We grab his limbs & break into solid tears,
we ask if
He has forsaken our black bodies to ruin, to the ecstasy
of war.
God is strange here; he can be a butterfly blossoming our
bellies
with bliss, and sometimes, a bedbug piercing & sucking
our blood
until we unload our homes to nameless strangers.
Anytime
we till the soil, it is not for farming, it means another
neighbour’s
head has befriended a bullet & God has summoned
the body.
I wonder if it is for autopsy or surgery, until heaven
sings to us
another sweet requiem. Perhaps, they do enjoy our home
visits.
Photo by K.T. Francis on Unsplash.
Four Definitions of Home in a Broken Encyclopedia.
1. Home (noun/cliché): a place where dreams soar, live, and yearn to stay.
2. HOME (UPPER CASE): A PLACE THAT MOLDS YOU INTO A MOUNTAIN AND CARRIES THE WEIGHT OF JOY
3. h o m e: when it starts to chase you away, you long for
distance, you search for space.
4. : a place that empties your dream until you wither and ask why it sheltered you if it can’t stay— to keep your burdens and griefs.
