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THE RUMI IN YOU

fingers a thin cut

after shaving your chin

and the rings of a reed

drawn to the ax

whorl to avoid

or unveil the nay 

hidden in your name—

the flute of grief

waiting to flower.

What other rocky faults

separate you

from Shams

in the dialect of rain?

When the Harvest moon

was last ringed by clouds,

did you lavender

your deepest bruise,

or did you whisker 

your weak chin as if

ruined beauty 

wasn’t a wearable thing?

And what fluted wound

could ruin love

more than the ruts

worn by water?

Must a rusting of faith 

whisper why that i

so central to faith 

quietly ran—a letter 

left out in the rain?

Amidst the reign

of lavender & loam

something in you

wants to surrender

and say “petrichor”

to taste the essence 

of stone.

If the Rumi in you

fails to whisk 

a thicker roux

from a flour’s fat sorrow—

do your bruises or beard 

begin to masquerade 

as masculine?

Does the Rumi in you

dare to dissolve 

or does it wait 

for Shams’ return 

while whispering

how to become a lover

of the rasp of rain, 

and why to be a lover

of the rest of ruin?