Come, Sufis!

Seven Kings railway station, East London

Come, Sufis!

You who rightly fear the dangers of negotiation
your Islamic lineage, your bayah to the master exteriorized

Recreate that past, magnificently sunnahed through it, my American friends of design!
Come, you Sufis, you wine-tasters, you aeon of shapes,
Your memories, your spirit, your preservation
given back, blood red, like Afghan poppies.
Or like a fish, burnt over, for the princess bride
Sufis come gather, and transform. Your Asian discipline, your secret weapon, your transparent armor and presentation Persian in martial manner,
(Now bewired, below and bejeweled) samplers and sheikhs, deejays of the nightclub eternal
Recall your origins: Fatima’s tears when Gabriel and Michael stood as 3, cloaked by crystalline stasis, “We are of light and cannot assist here.”

They meant the unraveling, and then the collection.

Her husband and what he did, what he said
The garden he planted: soon is the hour of harvest.

Smmer time now and two of my students, Aisha and Fatima, sit out at the union bar, a girly chat, a bottle of rosé.
And you walk with them and they walk with you

Crowned thus, in union of submission and vision, kisses
Crowned thus, in reasoned love and loving irrational, breath

Married so, second time
Seven kings played out in reverse

And back home again.


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