THE RUMI IN YOU
mishears
a whirling tune
of windblown petals
reining in whispers
and turns to avoid
the nay in your name—
the flute of grief—
beginning to flower.
When the Harvest moon
was last ringed by clouds,
did you seek to lavender
your deepest bruise,
or did you whisker
your weak chin as if
your own ruined beauty
wasn’t a wearable thing?
Because what fluted wound
could ruin love
more than the rasp
of rain eroding?
Must a rusting of faith
reveal or veil
why the i
so central to faith
ran quietly as a letter
left out in the rain?
Do you remember Shams?
If the Rumi in you
seeks to whisk
a thicker roux
from a flour’s fat sorrow—
must your bruises
or beard then begin
to masquerade
as masculine?
Or do they dare
bloom until
there’s some chance
the Rumi in you
returns to sense
how some become lovers
of the rasp of rain,
yet others simply lovers
of the rasp of ruin?
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