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THE RUMI IN YOU

fingers a thin cut

while shaving your chin

and the sigh of a reed

begins to unveil the nay 

hidden in your name—

a cursive red line,

a flute of grief

drawn from your whorl 

waiting to flower.

And what other rocky faults

separate you

from your present,

from Shams

in the dialect of rain?

When the moon

of the 14th night

was ringed by clouds—

your wound grown over—

did you lavender

your deepest bruise,

or did you whisker 

that weak chin as if

such ruined beauty 

wasn’t a wearable thing?

And what fluted wound

could ruin love

more than these ruts

worn by water?

Must every rusting

question why that i,

that letter

so central to faith,

ran so quietly

when left out 

in the rain?

Amidst the reign

of lavender & loam

something in you

seeks to surrender,

to say “petrichor”

and succumb 

to the essence of stone.

You finger

a single tear,

then touch it

to your tongue.

If the Rumi in you

could begin to whisk 

a thicker roux

from a flour’s fat sorrow—

what might your bruises 

or beard 

fail to mask?

Does the Rumi in you

cry to dissolve

or does it dare 

to whisper

why to be a lover

of the rasp of rain?