Qindeel

When I enter your nur –– eternal Mother ––
will you let me hold your misk scented

hand, show you shed photons of my hair
that deplete of auxins sooner than my age;

comfort me on the warnings I ignored ––
king vitamin that estranged me bereft

of cells that could foster my roots even
in darkness; water of my spine spilled ––

away from you. Place your hand –– eternal
Mother –– on my fissured bark that sprout

premature, confident of growing taller
than the clouds in the sky without light

in an escapist’s husk. Rain fruits over me;
I grew tall in isolation, surpassing the sun

branching my skull in direction of winds
that didn't stay faithful to one compass,

and my leaves didn't absorb as they should,
coating everything I touched in white ash ––

My body is infertile to flower paths
for voyagers –– bled my sap to whims

of seeds; queen Mother of eternal life,
on earth I am rare like flying stingrays

called as birds of water, rarer than nests
of proteins I bedded. Your cleaving light 

can nourish worth into serrated stems ––
nur of skies and earth –– see my fragile 

hair, open weeds in a breeze. I breathe
the dust of your realm; untethered death

showers salt over my unwanted sprigs,
and constellations continue their harvest

of the deep, vast void. Only you can sparse
thick, unbreathable air; convert to fertilised

streams of crescent fortune. Pulled by sickle
of drought, I am here, collect me with mercy––

First published in The Nature of Our Times