In many dissimulated moments
that went by without a cough, hiccup
or so much as a sneeze, all of the sparring
with the ‘within,’ during glorious mornings
to cacophonous nights of unserved reminisces;
the logics sliced with surgical precision,
held apart with clamps and pushed
through the within with amps and doses
of alternated steroids and sedatives
of utter lunacy;
the moments never lifting
like mists off of their grass, like water
condensing away from the lungs on leaves,
knowing the differential of smothering
versus nurturing –
like blotched epiphany,
such has been the count so far, up
till 31.7.
There has been no stretch on time,
the tenure that comprised the moments,
whether I lived in seconds or decades
within it; giving me no meter nor mile
on length or brevity of the days
I slaughtered, and the nights I censured
the stars for shedding their dead
fur on my grass whilst grooming partially
elsewhere.
I have looked no deeper through the sky,
through thick clouds of curtains, yet I have
breathed you in, just as devoutly,
and exhale you now
as poetry –
as suborn to my wastefulness, impetuous
in knowledge your vanity will not demand
pacifications from me.
Yet I demand for loyalty
against 31.7 years of anonymity.
IMAGE: “Le Cirque Bleu” by Marc Chagall (1952).
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sheikha A. currently lives in Karachi, Pakistan after having moved from the United Arab Emirates and believes the transition has definitely stimulated a different tunnel of thought. With publication credits in magazines such as Red Fez, American Diversity Report, Open Road Review, Mad Swirl, Danse Macabre du Jour, Rose Red Review, The Penmen Review among many others, and several anthologies, she has also authored a poetry collection entitled Spaced, published by Hammer and Anvil Books, available on Kindle. She also edits poetry for eFiction India. Visit her blog www.sheikha82.wordpress.com