Metallic Cyclone
The bed sheets have slow melted
into plasmic pandemonium, eyes
syrupy, arteries trimmed, desires
axed; yester night’s breaths hang
by a rope from a mansion’s high
banister, thunder pecks on wood,
rainfall soporific, leaden carts
crush into marmalade, street signs
gnash tempered panes; here I am,
holding tongue in hand, mind split
like fragmented fire, teeth biting
shadows; scabs and stones –
© Sheikha A.
The heel that breaks away from its sole
I step out of invisibility, the podium
four steps to liberty, a decided norm
whereby quirks abide, mutes rebuke
in their voiceless throats, the wide hall
echoes off of its own silence, the tables
don’t move, the bird at the window cares
less about its birth right as it pecks away
sun-caked grits from whitewashed sills;
the blinds have me covered with sleek
slats of glistening verticality, my story
horizontal between, the east to west end
of a quiet audience, the seminal nods,
Cinderella’s sandal on the foot for luck,
a clock ticking to a mounted mic,
saliva on the tongue like the cracked
earth of a waterless Nile; satin floor
and pumpkin lights; the mouth that opens
like a door to a ball, the kiss of a frog,
lyrical suspension, the heal that breaks
away from its soul.
© Sheikha A.
Pre-Autumn
It has rained on brown leaves;
inside the length of their spines
glistening like polished marbles
was an intimacy too real
to show its face, because the water
fell too sweet and the soil had
prepared no reservoir.
The flight of dry winds must end,
their wings must stop being stormless;
spells of paper boats set loose
in ponds must wash away;
their ink seeming wise; within many
lengths of many things
the intimacy is too real to be told.
© Sheikha A.
Incredible!
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