A cut
fragile skin
‘What do you hold?’
Paper thin
—-speckles of dust
…
She looks down
in the space that sits her heart
—‘Who defines the edge of me?’
She asks
…
A glass sits on her desk
filled to the brim
with clear water
‘What do you hold?’
She asks,
—the sea
——the clouds
———–the rain
…
Is it the cells, the bones, the veins
the heart, the breath
—-breathing
——–‘Where am I in all of this?’
…
Is it the elbow leaning against the table
The ear listening to a distant voice
Maybe the thought of a cup of green tea
—Who defines the edge-
the edge of me?
She tilts her head towards the horizon
her eyes find the crescent
A pause
…
..
.
How far is a step
—When edges are no longer defined by me…
Ancestors…
How strange! How can a lover sleep!
Sleep isn’t allowed for one who loves!
Freewill is the effort to thank God for Her Gifts:
when you negate freewill you ignore that generosity.
Giving thanks for the capacity of will
increases your power;
relying on destiny’s course takes the gift from your hand.
Believing in predestination
is like going sleep on the road-
don’t sleep! Don’t sleep,
until you come to the gate and reach the threshold!
Mathnawi I:938-942
‘Growl’ said He.
Liquid steel
trickles down her spine.
‘Root’ said She.
Grit and sweat combine.
Shoulders preserve mountains.
Longing wakes the dead.
As she walks…
shadows kiss the light,
and joy whistles through her hair.
In a dark wood
far far away
she stirs her cauldron
3 teaspoons of rain
cook with fire
Who is she
when the lines were drawn
before
‘Come’ she speaks
stir
wider
Stir
gather
the East
North
South and West
and stir
120grams of liquid scars
Why did they think
they could
trap stories in jars?
Sprinkle with 16 grams of voice
and add
an ounce of
…Them
to name one
is to name a nation
In a place
as close as the jugular vein
we stir the cauldron…
Ripped wings
and a dance.
Smiles stretched
with giant safety pins on either side.
Gently pulled by a soft cotton
tied
…to an ornate statue
…………..in an ironed and dressed garden.
She left them.
They took it.
She ran before.
She ran after.
Sometimes,
she stopped running.
In a pleasantly lit home,
she is bleeding
there is no movement
but breath
thats all there is
this breathing.
In this heavy light
I sit,
every inch of me
wants to run.
And to remain
…how do you remain?
Within the entangles of movement,
we are all here,
this moment.
Trying to remain,
dancing with Glances in the dark.
La ilaha illAllah, La ilaha illAllah, La ilaha illAllah…
