and then our exile

Images to the outside world. Spinning, dervishes, spinning, grandmothers, straw, gold, cracked molds. "Eurydice did not want to be sent back." "After a while it all sounds the same." "You will write worthless poetry, or whatever you Liberians do, and when you die I will wonder whether to burn it or bury it with you." This ugly, bleeding ceiling. Yellow moon heavy and low. Walking two days ago, heard Cat Stevens' Wild World. At class two days ago, my teacher’s voice became Hudhayfi and Sudais. He quoted verses, the stainless child clinging to its mother simply of fear on Day of days. The Lord above. "Above"? Put a Syrian and a Seattlean pointing up on a globe, you have two opposite directions, and this is why some Wahhabis say the earth is flat. 1.46am, carrying my body with me wherever I go. Mute, I am mute. "These onions look like your face." "I’m trying to establish a Muslim presence in PoliSci260. By Muslim presence I mean you and me." Damascus, Damascus. "You’re only here for seven more months--this is my advice to you, that you benefit of the shuyukh here." The Burdah. Stomach-cramps. Time in bed. Coming into my own, but whoops, there goes my niyyah. "Pack your bags, dude, your taste-buds are going on vacation." Asking why to everything I do. Why. Sometimes we forget we’re living our lives.