What Does It Mean to Be a Muslim Writer?: What Does It Mean to Be a Muslim Writer?

Two Poems

baby sister, listen: / my people got me feelin

Cardiopathy

baby sister, listen:

my people got me feelin

so I step up

real quick

to protect em, right?

jihad-fi-sabeel an-nas

I gotta

save the people

feed the people

defend the people

free the people

no time at all to

be the people

baby sister,

my people got me feelin

we in a row of human shields

step outta line

and get shot (in the head)

from the front (or from behind)

it all intertwines and at this point

I got a lady macbeth

jihad-fi-sabeel an-nafs

on my hands 

this struggle and that

dictators and autocrats

got me forgetting

this pharaoh right here

between my sides

baby sister,

my people got me feelin

we all need a

bypass

Say: i seek refuge in Rab an-nas

plant the little we can against the evil

and trust the pace Maker’s got His people

baby sister,

you feel that?


Corner Store Pilgrim

Abu Husayn’s is the kinda place

that has another name.

The sign outside reads something like,

Mediterranean Dollar Store.

Not

Middle Eastern.

But everybody I know calls it

Dukan Abu Husayn

because:

Abu Husayn’s is the kinda place

you can walk in

and say Salaam

and depending on the season,

hear:

an Arab newscaster

or a Turkish drama

or Quran

waft over the two crammed aisles.

Those two aisles carry everything.

You know how you can run out of eggs, or milk?

Abu Husayn’s is the kinda place

that’s got your back

when you run out of tahina

or dates

or grape leaves

or pita.

I don’t know if Abu Husayn knows

the number of Ramadan iftars

he has single-handedly rescued

but I suspect that he suspects because

some years

on a single holy night

I can get sent,

not once,

not twice,

but an embarrassing three times

in a single sacred hour before sunset.

And you can see a smile

make its way onto Abu Husayn’s face

the third time you walk in and ask:

‘Amu, wain zeyt az-zaytoun?

and on that third trip,

you will run outta change.

and he will insist

that you just take it.

and you will insist that he

take out the notebook,

covered in beautiful Arabic script

and jot the difference down

next to your Mama’s name.

Do you have any idea the blessings you get

when you feed someone

at the end of their fast?

I suspect it’s the kinda blessing that keeps you open

next to a brand-name-big-box

that carries

nothing.

The kinda blessing that comes after

war and migration.

God bless Abu Husayn and his family,

They’ve carved refuge

out of refuge.

Those two crammed aisles

carry everything.

 

About the author

it’s all ephemeral except the One. Rooted in the Pacific Northwest, Efemeral’s multilingual written verse and spoken word performance entwine reflections on faith, language and the human psyche. Her latest works have been published in anthologies by Rumi Center for Spirituality and the Arts and her Arabic poetry is currently featured in a public art exhibition curated by Vancouver Biennale. With(in) her communities, she enjoys facilitating poetry workshops and collaborating with fellow creatives. Efemeral acknowledges the xwməθkwəy̓əm, Skwxwú7mesh, and səl̓ílwətaʔɬ Nations on whose traditional and unceded territories she lives, writes, and performs. She can be found on Instagram as @poetefemeral or reached by email at poetefemeral(at)gmail(dot)com.