Rose & Thorn Journal - Spring 2011
______________________
Caleb Powell enjoys a round of beer, conversation, and hanging out with friends and family. His publications adorn many revered literary institutions, including Dark Sky Magazine, Hayden's Ferry Review, LITnIMAGE, Post Road, Prick of the Spindle, Umbrella Journal, Yankee Pot Roast, and Zyzzyva. Visit him at calebpowell.
Caleb Powell
After the first visit to the mosque, I realized I would never convert. My only hope to marry Aisha demanded that she drop her religious mandate. Is all really fair in love and war? I told her I would do anything to make her happy. Leaving Aisha would not be easy.
I had already moved my belongings into her apartment on Beacon Hill, and our cohabitation, evidently, represented more than primordial sin. And yet, why did she wait to tell me? Aisha danced in a mini-skirt on fetish night at The Vogue, drank wine, and declared war against the law of her family and her people. Her claws eviscerated my flesh, and I did not notice terror and fear within her ecstasy. Hadith claimed all fornication would be punished. Before paradise, the reprobate would hang upside down, legs split apart until she howled execrations. Her only salvation, then, would be my submission. An unbeliever saved might convince the creator to bestow mercy.
We attended Islamic study weekly and, amidst a landscape of unrequited hadith, I discovered what “liberal” Muslims thought. In Islam, among believers, nothing between a man and women was prohibited. Though Aisha and I broke major sins, she convinced me to forego alcohol, tobacco, and the ubiquitous pig . . . pernicious gelatin, that powder from hoof of swine. She wore hijab, the head scarf, in public; she began praying, using a compass to face Mecca; she taught me to wipe with my left hand and clean myself with water, to take off my shoes upon entering home, and to wash my feet.
And thus my precipitous descent into the year of Aisha, I read the Koran, returned to mosque, sat with adherents from Indonesia and Iran and Somalia, and contemplated rights and possessions under a new religion. If I could treat my wives equally, I asked, would she consent to polygamy? She told me: “Though I am a liberal Muslim and live in the West, I am from the East.” I still do not know what this means. I should have left early, if only I ran without compunction.
I hesitate to tell the full story, aware that some might consider it an attack on the sacrosanct. Through threats of suicides, hints of murder, I suffered through our year together. The writer betrays even the most intimate relationship. Years have passed. One by one, the stories will emerge, but for now, only this.
Living with Aisha
After the first visit to the mosque, I realized I would never convert. My only hope to marry Aisha demanded that she drop her religious mandate. Is all really fair in love and war? I told her I would do anything to make her happy. Leaving Aisha would not be easy.
I had already moved my belongings into her apartment on Beacon Hill, and our cohabitation, evidently, represented more than primordial sin. And yet, why did she wait to tell me? Aisha danced in a mini-skirt on fetish night at The Vogue, drank wine, and declared war against the law of her family and her people. Her claws eviscerated my flesh, and I did not notice terror and fear within her ecstasy. Hadith claimed all fornication would be punished. Before paradise, the reprobate would hang upside down, legs split apart until she howled execrations. Her only salvation, then, would be my submission. An unbeliever saved might convince the creator to bestow mercy.
We attended Islamic study weekly and, amidst a landscape of unrequited hadith, I discovered what “liberal” Muslims thought. In Islam, among believers, nothing between a man and women was prohibited. Though Aisha and I broke major sins, she convinced me to forego alcohol, tobacco, and the ubiquitous pig . . . pernicious gelatin, that powder from hoof of swine. She wore hijab, the head scarf, in public; she began praying, using a compass to face Mecca; she taught me to wipe with my left hand and clean myself with water, to take off my shoes upon entering home, and to wash my feet.
And thus my precipitous descent into the year of Aisha, I read the Koran, returned to mosque, sat with adherents from Indonesia and Iran and Somalia, and contemplated rights and possessions under a new religion. If I could treat my wives equally, I asked, would she consent to polygamy? She told me: “Though I am a liberal Muslim and live in the West, I am from the East.” I still do not know what this means. I should have left early, if only I ran without compunction.
I hesitate to tell the full story, aware that some might consider it an attack on the sacrosanct. Through threats of suicides, hints of murder, I suffered through our year together. The writer betrays even the most intimate relationship. Years have passed. One by one, the stories will emerge, but for now, only this.
