Grant Me This Book, Writer
Base-born child of your sour pen,
Wretched thesis, I let my plea
Fall upon your pain-stopped ears,
As a raindrop pleads with the sea.
For the love you give your poems
I dare not ask; just write me.
Now for Ruin
I tell secrets to water, earth, fire, air
Half-hoping for a magic flute to set
Me free, like the donkey-eared prince made fair
Once upon a time. There is no answer.
The noticing branch is scarred by my words;
The heedless lily floats on. Sand, grower
Of cacti, flees its own mirages, birds,
Lizards entrusted with eternity.
Zuches Are Still Sentient, No?
The threads that bind me are silk, doux
Et soyeux. One pull will transform
Them into irons that chafe through
Skin, and bite into flesh;
I shall smile, and keep on
I shall watch the fluffy clouds make
Flameless dragons, and brainstorm
Questions. Is it funny to take
Boys through war's bloody thresh
Singing of fried oignons?
Do chopped-tree stumps feel
Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Black Bough, Zin Daily, London Grip, The Madrigal, Acropolis Journal, Lucent Dreaming, and a number of other literary magazines. Studying life, languages, and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her. Linktree: https://linktr.ee/HibahShabkhez