~after Saeed Jones
Last night I taped
buttercups beneath my eyelids,
flinching as I caught sight,
One last time,
of your amethyst lipstick
seared on my pulse
Your fingers undoing me,
my shirt a pool of rusted guilt around your feet,
imploring us to be good girls again.
Decked in hallowed blood,
We are the priests, the imams, the guests and
the cousins and aunties twirling like tulips in June and
your grandmother’s anklet still tucked away under beaded cloth in her trunk and
Dear God, put love and mercy between us.
I fumble over my Arabic,
of your glitter eyeshadow blurring in my periphery,
The outcasts cease to caress the language of God.
A hundred stones.
Your freedom on my tongue
Our bodies braided with the shadows
Eternal sepulchers coiling around
Two hundred stones.