lynx africa makes for cheap incense

a baked potato is no replacement for rice

dress me in a gilded bisht

serve a dried lime in an emptied bowl

spread the saffron like dying embers

drip rose water in my eye drops

I have visions of wrought iron doors

ajar

​

ancestry brushed out like messages in a dune

I squint, my lashes the length of hadhramaut

a thumb like awal, but coarsely defined

presses down and blots

a spotted memory