Rushda Rafeek

MUSLIM CONQUEST OF PERSONHOOD IN THE TWENTY FIRST CENTURY, II


A vein brutally spews its upteenth sin. At this hour, the astronomer climbs down his gaudy dome
of dhikr. I water wounds for poems. Tickle at the navel of some electric delight where my whole
body drowns in mughal mosaics. To join the moths gifting a palmed moon. This sharbat tongue
pulled out from old fatima’s hand. To illustrate your snake-filled breath and dumbelek drums. O,
Bukhara, where were you when I licked down the throat of rose fields? Women like us borne
with daughters entering their death hive. The odalik eaten as kashmiri pulao. Our stigmata
knitted against all that is black mood when the bijou insects fuck us giddy, slowly slipping into
constellations. Blink the discursive inducements. Say a shallow prayer thereafter. To call me the
dancer’s camphor. Your hell doll habibti. Your soothing balm begum brunette. Your  malicious
ouled nayl cosmopolis. Your femme empire drugged nymphic, as though coiling her own
beggary at the desert.

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