~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

One stone.

Your fingers undoing me,
my shirt a pool of rusted guilt around your feet,
imploring us to be good girls again.

Ten stones.

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

Fifty stones.

Dear God, put love and mercy between us.
I fumble over my Arabic,
Partly because
of your glitter eyeshadow blurring in my periphery,
Mostly because
The outcasts cease to caress the language of God. 

A hundred stones.

Go, bird.
Your freedom on my tongue
Our bodies braided with the shadows
Eternal sepulchers coiling around
Our bellies

Two hundred stones.

Two violets,
We floated.