Four wives

Four wives
Four wives

And if your love is only sufficient to maintain one wife alone, then may
your knowledge be from a river of purest water,
The river of life, from which every living thing is formed,
Whose tributaries form proof trees,
Whose waves our ships negotiate,
Whose games we play,
Whose flow marks our Time.

Here is life.

Fish of different species argue about their colours,
but their colours only add to water’s proof.
And a Wife of Water is sufficient for you to find your Lord.


But if your love is sufficient to maintain two wives, then may your knowledge
be from that river of water and its other visible sister:

The river of milk,
from which all structures and all forms are defined.
Whose tributaries are angelic record,
But whose waves are static, constraint and warning.
This is the meaning of my dream: the angels could not avert Fatima’s destiny,
for as she wept, they stated “We are made of Light”.

This river is the visible conduit to the Womb, nurturing the
child for two years, so that it has legs to stand: one of martyrdom
and one of victory.

Here is the language of life: what people call their personal religion.

And, for the chosen, there stands a Wife of Milk, to descend upon us in battle.
A second wife of Milk is necessary for you to battle.
For what is the lesser jihad, if not a clash of language games,
where rules and pieces, territories and maps are exchanged, mutated,
mated, bifircated, like a movie violently projected over the screen of our bodies?

But under the tree, for those who make bayah, the Wife of Milk will
heal these wounds.

The Prophet’s drink.

There are dangers at this level, just as there is a beast beneath the waters.
Fighting is not for fish nor for women, but it is prescribed for men.

What of the invisible rivers? Our hearts’ desire?

The rules of warfare themselves were written with wine.
Drunk patterns refracted within the crystal of my glass.
And within the river of wine lies all invisible methods of hybridization.
Within this river is this intoxicating spectrum of
the genome’s metamodel,
The language of all languages of life,
The spectrum of all signifying regimes.
Where the religions meet, perplexed, just as Yudhisthira is perplexed to find Duryodhana there, in heaven, before him!

And here lies a greater danger.
The danger of drunkenness: that sin of Hamza.
Even for the prophets and the sahaba, it can somtimes be safer to drown in water
or find defeat in battle, than in absolute victory drink much from this river.

If the Prophet chose this drink for his people, there would be no Islam.

This need not be known, except for those who know.
For these chosen, the Third Wife descends upon them,
And emerges through them,
And they drink from this river,
And they paint a picture of themselves painting a picture of themselves.
But this is done with passion and so they know her.

The unknown and invisible need not be known or seen today.

But this will be a drink of the New Body, running beneath all believers,
The fish, the warriors and the artists.

At the wedding party, he turned water into wine.

But what of the fourth river?
And the fourth wife: her name is Assel.
She is the gifted Understanding that abides within the
the classification of all classifications.
She is the Faith of Metalogic.

She stands at the end of the river that is the mind’s emanation:
A river of honey, because the emergence of all speech is the pollination of the Cloud.

To be married to Assel is to speak freely, in Faith,
of speaking freely, in Faith,
of speaking through Faith
of speaking within Faith.
In this manner, her hand is over the other three.

She is elusive, this wife, and her contours are limitations that
extend by measures that she provided herself through limitation.
She is a fixed point,
the kiss that abides within the language of all languages of life.

Because honey is its own honeycomb.
Honey provides its own container.
And so there are only four wives for the believers.

This will be a drink of the New Body, running beneath the believers in their Garden,
The fish, the warriors, the artists and bees,
At that moment when the hijab is lifted
between what is visible and what is invisible,

As we move into the land of milk and honey.

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