Following Another Name

I was born into a Hall of wooden pews and Sundays full of crinkling satin bows, Confronted by a stern-faced woman with iron grey curls Tighter than her heart. I remember very little of those Sunday rooms, mazes of correct answers and long half-hours I was raised through new pews, Carpeted halls and Long hours with brown haired ladies A book 1200 pages thick of Tradition and my mother's folded hands as I peek From under my bowed head, Earning sharp reprimands from white robed men. I saw them, Of course, Walking in Dearborn, Detroit, Ann Arbor, far away lands of unrest, but They weren't in little, white, homogenous Chelsea, Michigan, Of course, Not them. Yet I marveled at soft amber skin And deep chocolate eyes full of More galaxies than I ever knew existed, Split solar systems of hushed mosques and mosaics that I was never Allowed to see. But I loved it. My room became a tiny haven, My dusty mirror showing a soft headscarf wrapped carefully, Gently, Over flyaway frizz, Green cotton matching hazel eyes. I knew not the complexities, So I faked them, Simply kneeling because I could not Remember all the beautiful Dances of prostration to praise another name of God. Foreign syllables try to roll from my strangely English tongue; I never realized how Odd and stiff my born language is, Too full of contradictions and Double entendres, strict lines of black and white Inky blood spilled on snowy sheets of paper, Ancient characters telling me how to live my life. As far as I'm concerned, Allah (swt) and God are just two names For the same deity, And I simply preferred Fajr Dhuhr 'Asr Maghrib 'Isha Over the Lord's Prayer and Hail Mary. My rosary beads were quiet patches of rakaahs Though I could not pronounce any of the words. I kept secrets too heavy to lift into the Dark recesses of my mental hiding-holes Instead dwelling in discrepancies and dealing in bargains. Half of me fit perfectly to each, A blasphemous picture of the Virgin Mary Transposed to the cover of a Qur'an I had never opened, like the Guilt-edged pages of Bibles growing weary Under my desk. Two irreconcilable pieces of religion, Broken images of stained glass crowns That can't be formed into the intricate patterns of an "Exotic" heart. So for today I pack away my rakaahs and prostrations in a wooden box, And take up my cross again. Someday, though, My heart will chase itself through the five pillars, And I will shake out the green cotton, Wrapping it carefully over a flyaway soul.

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