poetry by Sheikha A.
Ashes all over the screen
collecting like a carpet forgotten
its floor. Dry winter arrives –
throwing-away cleaning – somewhere
a land has grown plants. Here, the soil
can’t even utilize stray carcasses
to crop. Birds visit barbers before
they emigrate. There is a name for
every thing on this planet,
the unconscious are wise
the subconscious be wild
the conscious offer caution.
And then, there is the moon
hanging on someone’s fence
Maybe they get jealous of females,
the males in our family. Curses are
vouchers at a mall, from their mouths
come ordinance, damnation, the orders
of the angels sitting on our shoulders
marking our uncovered heads as the day
of deprivation. There is no such thing
as male domination, especially when
their food is cooked by a set of hands
grown tongues in place of fingers.
Memories stand like Smaug.
Under its left breast,
missing a scale, was a hole
that no treasure of the mount
could patch. This is how the new
moon is tonight. Grey, enormous
lights fall unheeded
as thick feet of heavy flesh
draw their route to the fires.
The plan was to burn the beast.
This is how memories multiply –
like loyalty fraught on bases.
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