The tides
They worship the moon
Little do they know
Like I
We are caused by You
Awakened by death
Life energy in gripped hands
Sunken cheeks
Plummeting catalyst
The birth of new life
Atoms of my soul revolutionized
How could we have known?
A.T.
.
.
Voices drifted out of cafes,
Coiling around the smoke,
That had parted from mouths
Mouths from which smiles hung
The streets became empty at nights,
the soldiers stalking the streets stealthily,
like blood flowing through veins.
I can only imagine what an entire peoples went through,
One occupation after another,
A revolution which plunged millions into an eternal despair,
Yet they looked at me with a brilliant love,
Love that I had not felt before.
A.T.
Smog dripping honey
Fires drowning in blue
A city of stolen kisses
And the heavens cleft asunder…
A.T.
.
I was his oriental doll –
He dressed me up,
Dismissing my order,
The waiter silently observing.
I think you should put your phone away.
I was an aesthetic ornament for the film roll
Snapping pictures of me on his Kodak
And I posed for him,
Pleased that he wanted to capture me.
And now, for you,
An object of your desire,
A figment of your imagination,
You forget that I exist outside of your mind.
A.T.
I taste Arabic on my tongue
Like the sun
It rises in the east of my heart
My fingers reach for the book
Perhaps this is refuge.
The silhouette of Moses
A halo running around the moon
Imprints of alif, lam, mim, under my eye lids
Bismallah.
Guide me to the flame
Prepare me to surrender
A.T.
So fearless, so undeniable, your faith to your God.
“My God”, as you often utter:
I pray to my God to save you
But the thing is, my love,
I don’t need saving.
A kiss on my forehead
Your lips I felt through my abdomen
My mind is flying,
You laughed into the madness.
I watched jealously from the rim,
I want to join you, in this madness.
Unable to fall in,
My wings lift me up.
I am hollow.
A.T.
Fire, light and clay,
One beloved above all –
Surely I suffer.
Job’s affliction – where did he find
the strength?
My suffering,
It is God’s proof to me,
Of His existence,
Grounding me to the present,
Pulling me back from past anguish,
Nudging me in from future terrors,
To be thankful for the painless days.
The girl who cries to God,
“Let me be your mirror;
Don’t make me perfect –
Just make me clear.”
I pour
Onto my conception of
God,
My unworthiness.
A.T.
Amanda Tapp 