The Body
With eyes half-closed
and a headache that won’t be purged
by aspirin’s priests,
which I eject from my body —
My body that I don’t like so much,
but I don’t mock it as it should be mocked.
Or love it as it should be loved.
I never sip drowsiness all at once,
didn’t think of seeking it
from the shepherds’ Sheikhs.
And I didn’t learn the rules of love
before falling asleep.
I used to feel bored by Rumi’s speeches,
and I like to think of death as a mistress.
A mistress won’t repeat:
Must, must, must.
A mistress won’t say:
Follow me,
oh sheep of the Lord,
to the grassy hillock I’ll show you.
A mistress doesn’t love
inadvertently or negligently.
A mistress wont swing like a gallows
nor wrap around like a snake
when she pursues you
through punctuation marks,
the mistress you chose to name
another name
like the detritus of a stray spider –
Do I say “the mistress” a lot?
My body is in pain,
and I don’t take care of myself.
My eyes can’t adjust to the darkness.
I don’t care about your answer.
You are suffocated like another beat
in a theatrical rhythm.
There is no genetic mutation rising
in the twilight of the trail.
Only the mistress
is spinning surreptitiously
the carpet for marching.
Raed Anis Al-JISHI
Poet and Translator
Qateef , Saudi Arabia
