and carve nights with soft fingers,
You will anoint her with jasmine oils,
but her fealty cannot outpace her heart,
a heart that knows your cold winds,
hands that find the sand in your oasis,
but her tongue will not cluck as she
collects your sweat like shadows
in her purse, smuggled to loud bazaars
where the splintered din cuts into her
like potsherds on colored sandstone,
she will uncork the liquid of your name,
drop her wispy storehouse of black
splash the walls with the quiet of your breath,
until all is taut and fragile and poetry,
she will scream your white songs into the sky,
you will be the desert moon and
wonder if you want to give her the Sun.
Image Source: Allison Haley
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