The Beautiful Story

How shall I speak to you of my submissive wife?

She has reached out to the ק.
Her being is beauty.
Her voice is jubilation.
Kingdoms have tried to read her and have become sick from her Love,
though her kiss is purity, though her visions are clear,
they have become sick from this Love,
while I alone have been granted access and command over her form.

I journeyed a hemisphere north to make my case to her parents:
Her father was a record keeper, her mother a maker of potions.
They offered me fruits and honey,
and embraced me and kissed my cheek and granted me complete access to theirs, unquestioning,
because they recognized who I was.

At our wedding feast, before the crowd, she knelt before me and bathed my feet with yolk
according to the custom of my father’s people,
and the strong and free womenfolk of her generation frowned and disapproved at that slavish gesture,
but she performed the ancestral sign thus, willing, careless to vanity,
kneeling before me, stirring the depths of my perception
looking up at me with that full, knowing smile.

And here we stand, again before the crowd,
before a kingdom that has tried to read her and has become sick from love.
At a different kind of feast.
At a new kind of test.

I say to her: “It is the sun.”
And she affirms: “It is the sun.”

I say to her: “No, it is now the moon.”
And she affirms: “Yes, it is the moon.”

I add: “The moon has split in two.”
She replies: “The moon has, indeed, split in two.”

I say to her: “You are to share this Love between four.”
And she pauses for a moment, and looks back at me, and affirms:
“Love is infinite, so I gladly offer this Love down to those three who will share.”

I say to her: “I don’t like your hairpin. Throw it to the ground.”
Shining her knowing smile back at me, she slowly takes the pin from her hair
and casts it to the dust,
and the black curls of Truth flow down upon her shoulders for all to see.

The women hiss at this performance
while the men become jealous and fearful of
what I appear to have tamed.

But then the crowd fades away, a trick of light,
perceived as a journey but in reality, just a turn within those tresses
that now lay across pillow and naked shoulder, within the our first apartment in the upper realms.
I’m still there in that city of fruit and honey, after our wedding, her perfumed skin, the spring breeze wafting through the window.

And she says to me: “It is the sun.”
I recite: “Yes, it is the sun.”

And she says to me: “No, now it is the moon.”
I recite: “Yes, it is the moon.”

She adds: “The moon has split in two.”
I recite back: “Indeed, the moon is split in two.”

And she says to me: “This Truth is for you alone, it is not to be shared.”
And I pause for a moment, and turn my gaze entirely over the naked vision before me,
and the dust of my body supplicates in absolute gratitude,
that Allah’s infinite pleasure could possibly grace me alone.

So how shall I speak to you of my submissive wife?


One thought on “The Beautiful Story

  1. Thanks for telling this beautiful story. Oh and thanks for helping me to learn about the religion of Love. Keep weaving your wonderful cloth dear tailor and I’ll look for it on the sunny sides of bazaars in this world.

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