by Sheikha A.
There are mountains rising from four-leaf clovers;
that was the dream of seeing my beheading
on a guillotine, and some ethereal proclamation
of having been purified spoke in the soft steps of a tornado
before full motion assault; it was the word shaheed
that was used in the same aghast timbre as one of
a woman prohibited from jihad. Someone
caught my armpits, then declared themselves
on a piece of paper. The only sensation
that prevailed after was a jabbing ache. Ironic how
a love for anywhere or anything begins from
secrets, and how the start of every journey
begins with dreams. I was told to follow the trail
of each outbreak at midnights, the waking in
cold sweat, and arm reaching outwards to
grab a closing door's edge, before it slid into
the vacuum meant to cradle its frame. Home is
an elusive junction where an asylum awaits;
it will encounter you civilly, offer you a hope
as practical and documented as your time
of birth; and then, it will offer you a dream -
conditional, like the dreams of sleep,
anything from anywhere, anyone from any way
can walk over every astral limit in the universe
and enter your space. The stars will break
as all things nearing their end do. And the pull
that prevents all things floating from falling
will guide their descent into the eyes that sleep,
composing as homes - a series of nights on
the verge of a pinnacle - heightened to nowhere.
First published in Red Wolf Journal