I didn’t trust it,
But I drank it anyway.
The wine of my own poetry.
It gave me the daring,
To take hold of the darkness
And to cut it into pieces.
~ Lalla, a Sufi Poet
Everyone told me how perfect he was –
how lucky I was that he wanted me
when he could have had any other girl.
When his shallow smiles or his searing slights
or his fierce fists find me, I wish on each falling star
that he’d chosen any other girl, any girl but me.
I slip from the beneath the covers
the covers that make the bed perfect for him
and of course it should be perfect for me, too.
In the deep night, after the rolling dusk is long gone
and the misty breeze blows into shore,
I shoot the shadows across his perfect tiles.
And while he slumbers I am briefly paroled
from the endless silence sifting between us
from concocting lightness among rusting tin pillars.
Barefooted I roam the sand dune labyrinths and imagine
purple jasmine blossoming in the silky moonlight
and that I am Persephone set free upon the solstice