In the whispers
Of blue light;
Hoping its softness
Will speak well
Of my heart's edges.
A wisp of scented smoke
A curled-up violin string
A curve of tear leaving closed eyes
A smile that kissed blades of grass
A drop of music that sat on shimmering knee
A divine humming that escaped wild curls
A rapturous sigh
A silent sigh
Thousands of raindrops from thousands of petals
From this pond
I scoop my day.
I could hear
His eyes avoiding mine
His Marlboro suffocating on the floor
.. like the buttons of my dress
.. like my smile
His shadow nudging him
To walk away? To stay?
I wished I had left first.
I wanted to be song but song wanted to be the river of moon where men hunted down lust and sex;
I wanted to be moon but moon wanted to be loincloths so that men could live the long tales of their forefathers' lies for one night more;
I wanted to be demure but demure was shedding its skin, like loincloths, for the hundredth time by the river of moon where women still spent generations pretending to be song.
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(c) Copyright Fadwa Al Qasem 2015