Our thousand and one nights
are coming to an end,
the integrity of hand braided rugs
unravels in the pavilions,
knives salivate
for the lamb's throat
and the butcher,
his mind an abattoir of bones,
hurries through
the countryside.
Scheherazade,
send us that ballad
about the mad monarch
you lulled and pillowed
upon the mercy of your thigh,
your once upon a time...
curling through
the little tent of his ear
before we
become a sneaping wind
itinerant among
thistles and stones.

copyright 2007 Geri Rosenzweig
bio
Barnwood magazine
Contents 07