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Mischief-mad, hidden among the cushions,

you guide three fingers under your burqa,


biting back a tell-tale groan. Your oven’s

wet heat, stoked each night from ash to lava


while your husband snores near by, still tortures

you the way faith haunts your thoughts all day long.


When the first wet spot bleeds through your knickers;

when myrrh drips from, like honey in the Song


of Songs, your fingers –– then even mischief

isn’t enough. Mother-in-laws yammer


and whine, but you smolder: wet oven heat,

holy cum shrine. Your longing is as tough


as your soul’s flesh. Faith is only torture

in a world that wants you chaste and discreet.