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I too know about singing while the earth

plummets, shifting through its tectonic rage,


spewing wisdom. Infernal afterbirth.

I too know about ritual. This age


of ours has no libido; I’ve read rites,

retained words, worked charms. I’ve wanted to be


more than just your, “brother.” Rolling your tights

to your knees, parting your burqa as we


part your lips. In the Song of Songs: “You’re dark,

sister from Lebanon,/ and beautiful.”


There are ten-thousand ways to cherish you

and your husband calls them all vile. One spark.


One quake. One song. Lust is an upheaval.

Divine chaos. That’s why it’s so taboo.