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Book of Riddles
We draw to the table and begin to eat. Beneath our feet, the grate complains: All my sweet Arabian oils, stolen, stolen. You are different, you console us, You bead our meat. You promise never to diminish. You swear to survive us, To fill the hourglass with spice, To escape on a deer’s tongue, To spill from our wrists at the hour of death.  Though her tongue is mute, She will announce herself. Who is the twin to her left And who leads whom? They appear to be nomads But not explorers For they move too aimlessly. She squats by the bed in the dark, Refusing to rest or to root. She longs to grasp the bare foot slipping past. Collecting myself as I diminish, My tongue tucked in the air’s cheek, I fill a goblet no one sips. Nocturnal, my one eye glows. I resemble a fingernail’s soul, My moon brightens. Hope’s medium, I am reborn with every wish. › Order Books |
