by Michal Mahgerefteh
Darkness vows to demolish
my dream structure, poisons
my amniotic fluid. Father!
Send your messengers, clothed
in words, to tie my hands with
a ribbon of identity; its primeval
glow will fancy my hands with
henna and strain my vocals with
piyyutim. Lift your harp to milk
my breath ’til my outer skin brims
in the light of the summer moon.
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The promptness of the message makes the poem a fast pace one. I admire the transition with precise words.