tries to realign my will's
magnetic imprint, and
my heart's irregular beat.
My vision is awash
with salt
of her night-sweat.
My hearing is trapped
within diaphragm's
circuitous drone —
in Arabic's passion
that etches
its parabolic script,
sung loud
so that no
slant or serif
can be erased,
altered
or misunderstood.
˜
Religion's veil
and chiffon —
its sheer black
and translucence,
its own desire
to give and want,
its ambition
to control
and preserve.
Such songs
mean nothing
to me
if one's own
peace and privacy
remain unprotected,
or, are not at ease.
I want
the chant's passion,
its heat
to settle
my restlessness.
|
I want the song
to soothe
my nerve-ends
so that the pain
subsides
and faith's will
enables to rise.
I also want
the beauty
of this faith
to raise
its heat —
not body-heat —
but the heat
of healing.
˜
But for now,
the diaphanous lull
is a big boon.
Here, I can calculate
the exact path
of my body's
blood-flow,
its unpredictable
rise and fall
of heat, and
the way it infects
my imagination.
˜
I step out
of the room's
warm safety.
I see
the morning light
struggling
to gather muscle
to remove
night's cataract.
˜
|
Again,
the mosques threaten
to peel
their well-intentioned
sounds —
to appease us all.
But I see
only darkness,
and admire it —
I also admire
the dignity and gravity
of heavy-water
and its blood —
its peculiar
viscous fragility,
its own struggle
to flow,
sculpt and resuscitate.
˜
In quiet's privacy,
I find
cold warmth
in my skin's
permanent sweat,
in its acrid edge,
and in my own
god's
prayer-call.
˜
|