A Shrubbery by Sheikha A.

The night growing into day is the way of the universe;
I wait, in this longing, for the permanence of the moon.

These ghost nights have possessed the ambience again
causing my being to rattle clueless in addiction, my eyes
carry dark bags of memories that do not escape by tears
or words to release me from the clogs of bellowing aches
reverberating in my shrunken veins withered of waiting
and wanting the glass to now appear as full empty.

These parasitic memories have usurped my unkempt yard
of stolid summers, and winters that I watered to thicken
ice around a shrubbery of leftover words exchanged in
between the mute sounds of gulping; your unmoved fingers,
the un-whispered hunger of the unspoken language, undid
and untrimmed our garden, alone and unfed.


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