She’s not made of clay. She’s a mystic being
made from the scattered pearls of Eden,
she’s not just a woman— she’s chrysanthemums
around the thigh of a bride whose
central quarters men have not seen.
Her voice is an aphrodisiac— a catnip calling
senses to blooms. I touched her last year
& my palm still has the
fragrances of a secret Arabian perfume,
one that quickened the spread of Islam.
In her eyes, I see everlasting gardens of Rothschild’s
slipper orchid burning like the fire of desire.
She said my name & her voice
spotted the solar plexus of my mind.
She’s not made of clay, fire, wind nor light.
She’s a being created
from something that looks like God’s strand of hair
lost seventy million years before
the creation of time.
About the Author
SAI Sabouke is a made-by-Nigeria writer living in New Bussa. His interests lie in Sufism, history, language and the demystification of love and desire.