Ripening purple rose, green first light, blue sky woman. It is all // Unbraiding //
My ancient lovemaster Rumi said variously, ‘Bismillah your old self’.
i know, and the truth is last evening’s rainfall is me, and
that boat resting heavily in wait is also me, and in all this i carry my thirst for trickle drops.
Foreseeing trickle drops, let them glisten
i say if you are water, then
that is enough, believe me
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
how do you live in this world ?
i want to say clear things and true things
to a beloved, slantly and i forget
i am a fool, and i miss god
In the midst of melancholy and pain,
breathing emanations of my body and its curious moon geometries
situate me closer to the words, ‘exquisite’ and ‘miraculous’
Iris-openers they are and my delicate lotus shall forever bleed in its perfume.
Inevitably, i am a fool
smelting in Monsoon Mohabbat
But i miss god
All these years, and
now Amma’s garden serves life’s palimpsest
that i recall through photographs old and recent.
Stay awhile and i shall deeply care for
the vermillion fish curry from her spiritual fingers, her tears
how precious they are
her prarthana. her aradhana
leaving me to become exactly the skin of a rose
i once drew in my school note pad, after raining daggers
i am blood and flowers. now / i am a decent daughter. now