If There Was a Way
to know how the ant became stuck in an ice cube,
it would mean a night of occupation;
tonight the moon will become sightless
until the sun decides its end of demise,
and the stars have already flanked like asteroids -
tiny from a distant, sparkling like fire-
stones. If I knew why the ant crawled
into the water inside the cube, I would
know why my arms feel the way they feel
when in some nights they hold darkness
like an earth-lotus, blooming without water.
I would know that curious minds are not
the only ones that renounce fear for break-
through; the desire to experience pain
is probably what drives stars to incarnate
cyclically; is probably what made the ant
want to be frozen. It isn't considered
death. The mind finds a sterile axis, stops
the rotation of churning, curdling to thickness
until the only form that remains is gel; water
is gel, in the inanimate way you enter
the realm of dreams, in the steadfast
manner you become home to the constricted.
But, I don't crawl like the ant into self-
picked spaces. I bloat like a pustule on burn,
find my own water in which to entrap
and cover the over-skin with glitter of relief.
The night will throb the moon on its frontal lobe;
the blind dawn will freeze in cataracts of light,
and nobody will know how I died a thousand hours
to watch the sun rise from its own.
He sews under the needle of numbness,
electrons cheering-on magnum opus of the dead
cells. There will never be dearth of spectators,
this is how he will always see, bright conjunctions
meant to slip him under a dreamless spell.
Some minds skull out of their forms -
disseminating like a torn letter - thinning paper
under a solvent of nerves. He sews like a vein
ready to receive; the exclusion of the external
like the red dots he would swallow for sleep.
It must feel like the universe has expanded
on a shrinking platform, and the ebon fills
in fast litres his jug of resistance. It is always
day when under; he sews a thatch to roof
his eyes as he dreams of hammocks
that don't feel like wired enclosures under
his skin, that sound of cooing waves of a lazy ocean,
that taste of lobsters, glossy red like giant pills.
When his jaw vibrates, he eats his teeth. He sews
under fluids that are chemically stable. And then
when he wakes, the white fluorescence
turns blue. His mind tells him he's an active dart
ready to shoot for target, his body sewing
his burning, fading memories of his sleep.
( Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her work appears in a variety of literary venues, more about which can be found at sheikha82.wordpress.com)
The Beautiful Space-