a journal of fantastical poetry

Zāl to Rūdāba

by Rushda Rafeek

How the arrow of your tresses throw
an aurous moon regal enough
to renew. My arms grow taller
than cypress. You, a Simurgh's plume
as child playing with an open sea.
I have with me the greed of bees
for your laughs preserved in pomegranate.
You, the reliefs upon desert sweat. You,
the crimson after disrobe.

I love that you must be claimed
with both fists. Say in harems of tulip
this forest shaken between thighs,
snake-holes for drums, O Rūdāba, I tell
the blade in your back full with want
beneath obduracy diving into my tongue
as wings, how to bewitch my branches,
how to mistress what I master. How you to me
becomes a sweet sojourn withstood.

December 8th, 2016

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