It’s when glass crashes down
to crinkle the seas of a prismatic floor
in folds soft enough to dance upon—

Speak!

There’s a frame hung on the wall
where corners meet
like rolling sand dunes,
where abrasive textures
claw at a crow’s croaking caw—
her feathers splayed
across murals of the meek.

Her masks are tribal
in their ancient burial of ritual surrender:
Cries of distant rumbles,
tumbles of clouds between crevasses—
Off-white creams flow
as a broken light show
glitters on the ground.

Speak!

Tell a tale once sung by herdsmen
who tied stones to their stomachs
to keep their hunger a wolf to stabbing beaks.

Dance upon the edges of an urn
crafted with falling lace
so graceful
like hair brushing into an upturned face—
welcoming eyes spilling false disguise
as the longing for her song
burns ever on and on . . .

Speak!

     Dear Angel of the Caves,     
     will your dust wave upon the surface     
     of wet skin, punctured     
     by the bark of your harp?     
     Will the shattered stains paint     
     a reflection for all the rainbows     
     to glisten like a dove’s distant gaze?     
     Will the folds flow freely,     
     the walls break easy,     
     and will he come with the moon at night?     

Speak!

Heaven, will you take a harlot?
Heaven, will you, will you take a harlot?
Heaven, heaven, will you take a harlot?

Alia Hussain lives in Chicago

Last update : 10-11-2007 05:42

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