Sheikha A. writes

Sticks and Stones

There is an undying death snagged 

in the trachea of a thin air

choking on its own redemption, 

but this room isn’t delivering

promises of painting a window 

opening on her lumpy canvas;

she’s collecting the sounds 

of her sobbing in a basket,

pushing its ropy fibres down 

her throat; the edge of his nails

can skin a metal, hers is a lupus 

feast of rotund flesh;

his hands can bring fire to its knees, 

hers are dislocated caps of ice blocks;

he can surge a burst of blood 

in the palest lips, 

hers are a slideshow of visitors’ 

imprints; he wears a crown

of earthworms, she smells 

of roasted ribs;

the wallpaper is reincarnation

the smoke from his lips a plunge

his teeth scissors 

the night crushing salt.