Holy Friday

On a Friday morning,
with another takbir,
he places his palms
on the ground,
and his forehead
before his God, and
his only prayers are
for you, woman.
And after, he walks
across from the masjid
onto the market street.
under the sultry sun, hot
and seducing, watermelon
of the streets lay, raw
open and glistening
and all his thirsty cravings
are only for you, woman.
He holds a pot of Kohl
and the older man
at the other end
wants to warn
him, women like her
are waiting for you

in your homes , stirring 
milk drinks for you, 
leaving traces for 
you to kiss
on their tender lips
but sinful their hips
 are, hell
their full
breasts are.
He walks home
with a pot of Kohl
and all his sweat beads
are in a prayer
for yours, woman.
In his kitchen, you are
brewing chamomile
In his home, you are
bathing in oils,
steaming your locks
in rose water
and you wait for him
in all your beauty slipped
into a long silk dress.
On a Friday morning,
with another takbir
he comes home to you,
pulls your seeds and nectar
apart, licks it off your neck
with the salt of your sweat
and his only thoughts
are holy holy holy.”

– Holy Fridays by Thamanna Razak


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