(timorous, tentative, terrified)
when Janie undoubtedly goes to sleep,
leaving me and this beautiful girl
alone in a cottage of possibility.
I stumble over a crack in the sidewalk,
a renegade root that has disturbed the pavement.
I clear my throat and bury my hands in my pockets.
“I’m not sure your sister-in-law would approve.”
“It’s not like we have to tell her.”
She smiles and her expression,
framed by glossy caramel hair,
is alight with hope.
“Seriously, Mati. It’ll be fun.”
I should not go—no, I should not.
I have devoted myself
to fostering a closeness with Allah,
and I strive to be a gracious Muslim son.
But that does not mean
I am not vulnerable to misdeeds.
I have tempted sin in her proximity already,
engaging in meandering conversations,
letting my hand drift to hers,
daydreaming about her,
when I should be doing anything but.
If we are truly alone…
I will not make choices that honor Allah’s word.
But our situation is not so simple.
The feelings she incites in me—
affection, esteem, compassion—
strengthen my spirituality.
