The End of the World was a mosque.
Brothers in freshly pressed white jilbabs, perfumed
necks, congregated in ceremony and symmetry,
tethered to each other on Friday afternoons. One
prostrating on the carpet, its emerald unequivocal as
the ocean he had crossed from Syria, next to him father
to first baby, hands up as sleep heavies his lids,
uncle in the wheelchair whose wife would try
to protect him. Look at that crowd every week, they were
ready to receive the truth in whichever shape it arrived.
The End of the World was thundering. Was bullet
ridden. Was still. Gunned down as they uttered
in devotion, Peace Be Upon Him. The End of the World
was refuge in the words, Allah Akbar, in the doors
always open despite the terrors, this
welcoming and wearying of us:
children dressing up for Eid,
the ginger cat lingering,
the women complaining
about the space. Alhamdullilah
for the sisters who couldn’t make it that day.
As the white man stood at the gate
like a soldier, led by every other white
man who had brought him here to prey,
to massacre all the Muslims away.