IN THIS CITY

here in this city, nights come like a drowned thought
because mornings are a stone’s throw from immersion

into a cataract of the frissons of new torments for
children who find it difficult to identify their fathers’ scars.

here in this city, a boomerang child does not look
into mother’s face without seeing a fading miracle.

here in this city, your emissaries return with falling cheeks
while you ponder what prayer to get tendered

when you hear the sound from the minaret
piercing through the city and your wet heart.

————–

WHEN YOU HOLD THE RESTING SUN IN YOUR PALMS

Love will not shake you by the right hand
unless it has stripped you of your clothes

pushes you into bed on two occasions and
rapes you of your felicity; call it a rape of life

your body is a library that keeps
a dictionary that defines love as counterfeit

till you become a sadomasochist, like love itself, and
tears do not ooze from your eyes when it comes with its shit

the resting sun in your palms has stopped shining
while love becomes a taboo.