What it Takes

It is night-
a welcome respite from frenetic, harried day-
although what constructs this agitation is unclear, its end is gratifying.
If I squint my hearing,
I can almost imagine the lull of the air-conditioner
to be a warm autumn rainfall,
hushing the ever-present thoughts that goad me on:
something is not quite right.
Still, and stillness is not easily obtained,
the night affords the luxury of solitude-
A deserved hiatus,
a whisper like cocoon that envelopes not only body but also mind,
and finally puts to rest the
noise of nocuous playing.
Something is not quite right...
be still,
be yielding,
bend twig,
bend.

A New Me

Were it possible,
I would dissect myself,
(remember that fetal pig in biology?)
And live as two remnants
Neither complete, yet able to function.
I would throw off my abaya of caution-
Send its amorphous black slickness
Flying into the night,
And then don a shawl
Of reckless abandon.

I would ravenously gnaw artichoke leaves,
Licking the sweet melted butter,
All the way to the heart,
Never letting the fear
of choking on the thistle
quell my pleasure.
I would forget my daily vitamins
And never take to heart the bottle’s
muffled insults
again.
And I would cross diagonally-
smiling.

My other me would be diligently
At work,
Studying Al-Ghazzali, Rumi,
and art.
So clear would be my mind,
I could paint cerulean circles while
Contemplating God.
Neither
lessening
the other.
And in the background:
Coffee- Beethoven-
And dust,
Dancing in
The descending
eddies of
sunlight,
sifted
through plated
Windows.