I am ironing this garment,
smoothing
stubborn creases that have
outlived the patience
of defeated limbs

and I have tried
to smooth the
creases of my heart,
to polish a rust beyond repair
to stitch up gaping holes.
but this, a failure of more than
trembling hands.

yet Al-Wadud stays etched
here, under my ribs
in my pulse
where He should be.

and for all its creases
I will not abandon the garment
with which He has
entrusted me.