The house is on fire, like it has been for ten years or fifteen or thirty-five, when a legitimate parking dispute in a residential neighborhood turned into Republican racism. No, they said, you can’t gather here, although you can pray in the basement if you must. For your community, we suggest the next town over.
Then they lit matches and handed them to worshipers like a present. Divide them–divide them however you can, geographically or by the geography from two generations ago, it doesn’t matter. Once you light the fire they’ll fight amongst themselves.
When is the moon and where is Ramadan and what is Eid?
“I want a community,” I said at my interview last summer. “That’s why the pay doesn’t matter. All I want, all I’ve ever wanted, is a group space that clicks and where I feel like I’m doing something useful for us. Where I’m an asset. Where I belong.”
When did I stop making that du’a?
Oh Dream, when did I quit you?
Was it in college, or once I graduated, or that first direct deposit?
“I came here to fulfill myself and I am torn at the seams.”
Where did I lose you?
“Maybe it is still here, your dream. You have no way of knowing. You have to fight.”
It always feels like I was better yesterday, that every moment I march toward death with a blacker, harder heart.
Smile, it’s Sunnah. “Maybe I don’t.”
I know I am yet worthy.
Please, come back.