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. 

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