Hoopoe

So let me write my poetry on your
unadorned feet, so that
it can dance to the heart of a magical beat.
As we know, some sit under the solitude tree,
and some are sunk within the boundaries
of being free.
And here we are, debunking the status quo
built against the law of love.
If it rains, let it; and if it doesn’t—
the storm of tomorrow will wait.
Oh my Hoopoe, all we have to do is fly—
over, under, beneath the cry.
No wonder we can gather the stories
of worlds beyond the sky.
It’s your ankle I will kiss before I put
the anklet of river on it,
and break the iron which was there, and not there.
Oh you, who study the sciences of the known
and the unknown—
let me study you for a while,
to be the poet of the dawn.
Let me read the turbulence of your breasts,
let me write your lips, nose, and cheeks,
and wrinkle your unwrinkled dress.
Let me chew the date for you,
to let you enjoy its flavour.
Let me peel the pomegranate,
sliding away from its sustainer.
Let me hold your hand and kiss your palm,
and nourish our longing of becoming one.
Now rest your foot on my chest,
as I write the last stanza at my best.