(Written on a bus, briefly taken aback and mesmerized by your exposed knee)
I suffer from your beauty.
Even the square curve of your knee,
hard and compact like your voice,
is a perfect crevice, shape of sunlight
for these desert-frozen fingers, a clasp of
jewel knuckles yearning. I would run hands
along solid spaces of
your thigh, soften
I would harden myself
become turgid with inaction
I would wave undulating fragile insides you see not,
paint stroke the length of you, tall a distance
from my seat to yours.
I would then let tongue, raspy cotton, old and unwashed,
blossom languages, speak
words inherent. Move, a
diaspora towards pleasure higher, further
up the mountain trail of
finger feminine me leads lips to sacrosanct
intersections of your edges,
yielding muscles that could heat and
grow a bridge between souls, two laps sitting
across a seat from this secret.
Contract and relax, a breath
of nature in every reflex, you breathe, eyes
Hind Shoufani is a Palestinian film maker, poet and writer and has lived and worked in many big cities in the Middle East as a writer, producer, film director and editor. She is a founder of the Poeticians poets‘ collective in Beirut and Dubai, in which poets, men and women, from all different backgrounds and origins meet regularly to present their ...