I rode the night on its tail. The hooks
on the shirt of my bravery coming loose.
I remembered the orbit of your arms
that wanted to hoard my ornate
inconspicuousness from ever meeting
a sky-farer with wings of paper
but of a brazen heart he carried
on his sleeve, his mouth like the wind
in summers that made no oaths
but knew many amusing tales of musical
birds. You kept my mind from peeling
away like skins of immature lychees,
never coming off evenly. You built
homes where I wanted clouds.
Since you knew best about preservation,
I stayed in your jar and called it sky.
Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and U.A.E. and often finds herself in a world of oscillation that most of the times motivates her writing too. She maintains a (or tries to) blog on sheikha82.wordpress.com.