T H E P R O M I S E

T  H E       P  R  O  M  I  S  E

Is it surrender, if we both put up our hands?

Until I met you, I never knew craters could run so deep.

A Sufi’s vertigo; each day brings
our beginning closer to its end, yet
if we don’t eat the apple,
how can we plant the seed?

We wear this crucifix
like an adhesive bandage, and
prostrate to the ocean
beyond its flirtation with sea.

Because loving you is
like floating underwater;
tarlatan clouds
set homeless hearts free.

A mellowing of mustard,
the crescents of mirrors expand;
drowning out the negative stills
of memory.

© Farah Beaini 2016

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