This morning she wanted to clean;
The garden, shelves and trees. 
And I, a slave to her ways, 
Gathered shears, rags and sprays. 
 
The unsuspecting vine of jasmine
Coiled over our balcony railing,
Offering her blooms and perfume, 
Not knowing she aimed to prune. 
 
Green leaves trembled before her, 
Yet she whispered love as she tore, 
Branches old with dried blooms 
Promising them a compost tomb. 
 
I watched her, hands ever ready 
To hold thick vines steady,  
Shearing what she can not,  
While eyeing a paper cast. 
 
Striped little warriors 
Had built a monsoon nest.
Vexed at the constant shaking 
Her gentle hands were causing. 
 
I warned her of them,
Offered to break their stay.  
She spoke to me of mercy 
For the part they play.  
 
Her tapered fingers pruned 
too many branches too soon.
Ivory flowers drifted down 
she hissed my name in alarm!
 
Clutching her hand with a cry, 
Cradling the pain to her chest. 
A ruby bead bubbled to life
Upon her finger with my ring. 
 
My lips at her finger 
Drew venom to my mouth 
Soothing her sting 
Before guiding her out. 
 
I chided her mercy  
That invited such harm.  
She kissed my cheek 
And accused me of charm. 
 
I offered to evict them 
Nest, branch and all. 
She said she was at fault 
For her own downfall. 
 
I applied a salve 
While she rambled of roles 
And asked me if it died  
By stinging her for their cause. 
 
She mused of being marked 
in their thin paper hive,
In wasp-speak posters 
Wanted for her crime. 
 

I cursed him every month,
Demanding he pay,
For the injustice of nature's way.

Three days of blood,
He withstood with a smile,
Keeping me warm for a while.

I cursed his gender, 
His muscle and strength,
He listened as I went on at length.

Three days of patience,
He gave freely to me,
Waiting till I could clearly see.

I cursed his devotion,
While seeking his arms,
Rocking me till my heart calms. 

Three days of tears,
He kisses away in bed,
Keeping me loved and fed.

I cursed my anger,
That he idly endured,
Smirking at me who he adored.

Three days of love,
My beloved gave freely, 
Till at last I slept dearly. 

She dressed for an event tonight, 
In a garment I'd never seen in daylight. 
Six yards of silk as dark as night, 
Glimmering in our bedroom light. 
 
With crimson blooms painted brightly.
She draped a yard or two lightly 
Over her pale shoulder just slightly, 
Shielding her curves I craved nightly. 
 
She stained my lips with her lip-print, 
As my hands slid past layers for an imprint 
Of her navel adorned with a golden glint,  
Lost in the pleats offering me only a hint. 
 
My hands travel down her silk-bared waist,  
Till upon my thigh, her delicate feet are placed. 
Delicate golden anklets chime where I've laced 
Bells around the pale ankles I embraced. 
 

There is a man I have met,

In a world made only of text;

One who writes of his love

For a Great One above.

One who yearns to share,

Stories of a divine affair.

One who echos of my past,

When I lived in lands vast,

Where towering sand dunes

Rose under desert moons.

This man I have never seen,

Should not go forever unseen.

Come here.

She answers like prayer brought to life,
Her footsteps dancing on wooden tiles. 
For she is a woman who knows no strife. 

Kneel here.

She slides to the floor with slender grace.
Her ochre dress billowing like the sun's rays.
Such is her light, my sorrow barely a trace. 

Yield here.

She folds to press forward head bowed to the floor.
Her yellow dress yielding as metal tugs slow. 
Reverent fingers spread fabric seeking for more. 

Be here.

She trembles on knees, arms straining to hold.
Her coral lips parting to spill out her songs. 
I admire my bride, such a woman to behold. 

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The kettle whistles readiness for the coffee I brew. 
My beloved peruses the shelf for a poet to pursue.

Lace drapes flutter in the afternoon breeze, 
He stretches long limbs in the couch with ease.

A plate of zalabia stacked upon the low table, 
Awaits our mugs and my laughter for his fable.

The Prophet rests indexed by his scarred finger, 
Till I settle upon his chest, yearning to linger. 

His voice carries reverence of when Almitra spoke, 
We would ask now of Love, he murmured to evoke.

When love beckons to you, follow him, he reads,
His kiss to my brow when our knowing gaze meets. 

The scent of coffee fills his pause as he sips, 
A sticky sweet offered with love to my lips. 

Once lethal fingers stroke my spine where I lay, 
Lost in his cadence that carries away the day.

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Come.


Gravel compels my feet. Their shadows entwined as one,
Her dance had paused, his chest a pillar at her spine.

My eyes feasting on the vessel of his love,
Reverence folding me to my knees before them.

His fingers plucked her blossoms to fullness,
The glint in his eyes sharp over her shoulder.


Drink, my son.


I could only obey. Warmth spilled of her,
Rivulets of nourishment he had denied my youth.

She remained his even in this moment,
Her life-giving essence filling my mouth with greed. 

I drank of her till my throat knew of love.
Till my heart aches even as hers swelled anew. 


Enough.


My loss is immediate. Her buds freed of my mouth.
My tongue had known no greater blessing.

She looked of love cradled upon the throne of his thighs,
He looked of death given the purpose of life.

Weapon-burned fingers sinking into pale thighs,
Parting her knees over his own scarred ones in strength.


Watch, my son.


Breath left my lungs. Hers came in a cry.
Dew had gathered between quivering petals.

His promises whispered against the shell of her ear,
Long fingers, seasoned by war, coaxing her cries. 

My own trembling fingers ached to touch her,
Her hazy windows pleaded for her respite.


Hush.


Her lush mouth trembled. Prayers trapped in her lungs.
Delicate lashes fluttering over dusk kissed cheeks. 

His silence commanded her will as much as mine.
His breath dictated her safety while mine struggled to subside. 

The sinful curves of a woman bowed to pleasure,
Held in delicate tension in my father's lethal hands.

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Yield to me, oh beloved of mine.
Her gaze gentles, mind coaxed to stay.
Surrender your breath, to me align.

Weathered are my fingers with hers entwine.
She sighs before me, beginning to pray.
Yield to me, oh beloved of mine.

Steady is my breath, my chest to her spine.
Her fertile curves ease back to sway.
Surrender your breath, to me align.

Strong are my hands, that guide and confine.
Her chin to the sheets, led forward to lay.
Yield to me, oh beloved of mine.

Warm are my lips, encouraging her whine.
She cries into silk, thighs pressed to splay.
Surrender your breath, to me align.

Broad is my shadow, over hers that enshrine.
Her melody rises; my rhythm begins to stray.
Yield to me, oh beloved of mine.
Surrender your breath, to me align.

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I loved you when I saw you appear.
You loved me when I ached to disappear.

You held me when the nights turned dear.
You held me when my eyes shed a tear. 

You kissed me when the nights were severe.
You kissed me when my gaze grew clear. 

You caught me when the world tried to shear. 
You caught me when my feet rushed to veer. 

You led me when dawn called me to revere.
You led me when my mind shed the veneer. 

You taught me when the vows called me to adhere. 
You taught me when my need urged me to steer. 

You left me when the gods drew near.
You left me when my heart knew no fear. 

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They say that life finds a way even in the toughest of situations.

That God opens one door when another closes, but humans never really see any doors.

They blindly stumble through life while their divine guardians sigh in frustration.

One such guardian angel is currently face-palming at his ward’s complete inability to seize opportunities. He had argued, in so much as one dares to argue with the Almighty Creator, when he had been assigned this particularly stubborn human.

“Must I really guard this particular one?” he had asked.

“IT IS MY COMMAND, ZERACHIEL,” had been the booming reply.

Zerachiel knew better than to debate against that. The living embodiment of defying God’s will was currently seated on a throne ruling over the land of burning blue flames and Zerachiel did not want to sit beside his fallen brother on an equally miserable throne. And so, he kept his thoughts to himself and muttered under his angelic breath all the way down from heaven to the realm of the planet these humans had named as “Earth”.

He had begun regretting his very existence ever since.

Charissa Jones was not the type of woman who believed in higher powers watching over her. She was the type of stubborn, bull-headed women bred into the 21^st century who grabbed life by the balls and dug holes through fate to get what she wanted.

Zerachiel was getting quite sick of her.

She never picked up on his prophetic dreams; instead, she woke up and wrote them down in an old college notebook for reference against Freudian theories. He had watched her try to apply logic to divine intervention, had watched her scoff at his subtle displays of power. Admittedly, he should’ve been more creative and not resorted to the lowly tricks of damned spirits that seemed obsessed with the humans, but he had been frustrated.

Currently Charissa was trying to logic her way to a decision on the state of her marriage. She was not supposed to be married, but again she had gone against the threads of fate and decided to marry at the age of twenty-six.

She was supposed to marry at twenty-nine, and now she was ignoring all the thoughts he was planting in her head, trying to put her back on course as Fate demanded.

Angel or not, Zerachiel was certain any more impact of his palm against his face would result in a permanent mark.

Fate was not the kind of being that Zerachiel wanted to interact with; she tended to be dramatic and vengeful. If he was not careful there was good chance that Fate would throw Zerachiel a curve ball that would land him in hell. He did not want that.

Determined to make this human see sense, Zerachiel flaps his glistening white wings against the tiled floor of Charissa’s bedroom, sighing in disbelief as the raven headed woman just dismisses the disturbance in the air with a shrug of her shoulders.

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She sits before me, her arms guided high.
Cinched wrists led past her nape to deny.
Jute lures arms closer, till elbows comply.
She sits before me, palms joined with a sigh.

She sits before me, silence echoing in her mind.
Soft swells rising and falling, as rope begins to wind,
Jute threads under and over her bosom to bind.
She sits before me, breath bound and lined.

She sits before me, pale legs combined.
Tender soles lay, under knees aligned.
Jute curls slow, over ankles refined.
She sits before me, ivory caves confined. 

She leans against me, my chest to her spine.
Fibers coiled twice over a thigh folded fine.
Jute travels around a girdled waist line.
She leans against me - my rope forged shrine.