We’re seeds waiting to burst,
to impregnate you with poetry,
and fill your womb with our vulnerabilities,
because we know our origin,
are familiar with it’s perfume.
Naturally, the poetry of a woman’s body,
will only be understood by poets,
because we understand lines,
we curve words,
we cursive around vernacular,
until it tingles the hairs on your clavicles.
And why, we ask?
Why do you seek those who have no vernacular,
only then to look down on us,
when we write you more poetry,
write you, more you.
We don’t see you in disjointed pieces,
of fleshen lust,
body parts of Frankenstein making,
we see you as the sharer of the apple,
we ate, as you ate, tempted by words,
and only then,
was our nakedness made apparent,
but still we write,
of losing the innocence in silken verse.
Come eat, if but a morsel,
and become immortal,
forever seen through ripe pomegranate blood of heaven,
if it weren’t a sin, we’d worship you,
and God would certainly understand the heart of poet,
we’re not blasphemous, we but love his gift to us,
and yet still, you long for the tongue tied,
the glittering fodder of men,
we pale into shadows,
writing and writing, and writing, and writing and waiting…..
This affair with words has us mad,
as we long to carve out the perfect prose,
with the precision of a zelij craftsman,
geometry to perfection, balance and scale and rhyme and rose,
and hope to plant it in you,
a seed that grows….
waiting still in shadows.
Art by David Uzochukwu – he is quickly becoming one of my favourites.