bichwa ke mare ordhniya ke torde,
tohar najariya jaherile jaherile.

A scorpion stings me, its toxins swim my veins,
one ill prick from you and I writhe in your fever.

I dream I cough up a songbird I release to the sky,
you board a plane to take you across the desert.

I will tie messages to the feet of doves,
set them to sail at dusk with a map to your country.

Dizzy with thirst they fall, raining, from the sky,
their dried meat hardening in their tawny feathers.

I throw stones at planes’ shadows, cursing their iron
to crash, to burn in serrated-leafed cane fields.

So my skin never blisters with your desire,
in birdbaths I empty vials of avicide.

                                           The scorpion’s sting tears my veil,
                                      the glance from your poisonous eyes.