I called 99 names
and the wind whispered yours through the west rib of my faith.
Through the east rib, our hands joined in prayer push out a new
Beloved, could I lay you gently on my Butcher’s stone
so our blood can stream like pearls down the corridors
of relentless unreturns?
My hands now certain Gods capable of traversing the flux
between gone and arriving, of nationhood and name.
Paradise is described as a pressure worth the spell of please:
I would mourn all our negations if this earthly Jahanam was as peaceful.
Belief is a whorl the size of tomorrow and heals sweet like skin.
Could the sureness of your name make fruit from the seed of my bone?
Could these strikes of belonging to something other than exile
be the only sacrifice we ever need?
Together searching for reflections in God’s lonely and austere names.
