Do not think that I am ignorant of the body
nor that these walls
are an analogy.
They do not represent God’s love,
nor are they chastity.
They are as obdurate as every body is,
tricking the flame
into a dance that wavers there
for its own pleasure; not for mine.
All that I want is light.
I am light,
pure and unobstructed,
until, once again,
I see the wall; its skin.
I realise, once again,
how thick it is,
how slick and how curvaceous,
and I feel its insolence.
Bold and corrupt the way
it beckons the candle’s tongue.
But I am not a candle.
I am a wall.
I am extravagantly pure
until the birds begin to tell the time.
Remember? Blossom; light
like a cupped hand; birds
flung like paper at the wind.
I was bricked in
before I was bricked in.
Featured here at the Islamabad Literary Festival. Published in A Brief and Biased History of Love.