The butterflies of my headscarf
are pilgrim worms that have always crawled up
the laddered gloom of my vocal cords.
And by the strident testimony of my heels
the life I walk is half dead on the blindness of scales
while the immature conquerors of our alien triangles
feed on the generous familiarity of our circles.
How many shrouds of laughter and wrath should we stitch
so the trampled body of this silence is never vertical
The flowers of our drowsy dresses no longer wish to await
a mating wind that scatters motherless dreams
on the dizzy denial of an earth
that can offer equal warmth only to horizontal feet
and avenge the uneven passion of the pair that
treads on her.
Skirts unite the stupor of legs for
trousers to divide and rule.
the weaver sat alone,
glasses pinching his nose,
brought from Tabriz,
to create a rug, a farsh,
one that Shah Jahan would
admire, with his peacock ,
a design of love with weft
and weave .
161 knots per inch
in finest wool, purest dyes
to create the tones.
he began and worked with
as the face appeared the
beauty apparent, the weaver
fell in love,
a female profile so beautiful
he wept, locking himself in
the room, unable to surrender,
guards pounded the door,
there was nothing more,
cast them open and
flung himself on the spears
of the sparabara.