Dear, resistance is not stealing stares
when they don’t set your skin ablaze.
A blemish wouldn’t do,
neither would your burning loins.
Only reeking, melting skin would suffice.

How do I tell you that lands are now cliché
and the race is to colonise bodies?
In a verbose narrative with a morbid
undertone of servitude?
With a lackadaisical story of sorrow?
Would that please you?

Dear, apprehension of separation
is no longer my mother’s calling,
and romanticism is a flyblown cadaver,
and solidarity without insurgency
is a pitiful reminder of my father.

The bodies are complicit
in their colonisation, of course!

The bodies didn’t learn to love with
that read like a preemptive surrender,
or sang lullabies that sounded like
admiration of the modern banality
borrowed from the last century
in their vicinity.
And of nothing beyond.
And only admiration.

These bodies didn’t learn that horizons
become a void
when their own clothes are worn,
and when they are torn.
That curfews are merely
a method of ethereal indoctrination
of a lovelorn nation.

Did they not know that love has
always been the gratitude of the lover
and atonement for the loved?

So, dear, of course,
they conquered those indocile bodies
and chained down their orgasms
and dictated the structures of flesh,
now turned into fabric,
that birthed them,
since to birth an illegitimate child
is always a greater sin.

But, this child, this child.
Always hysterical!

Their hands are contiguous sanctuaries
for dilution of cusps into entangled thickets.
They are one-breasted and two-lipped
and three-spirited,
a ceremonious offence to dichotomies.

Binary is a manchild,
and the queer child does not have a name.
Perhaps because a name is a female child.

So they call themselves resistance
and cremate themselves inside
turquoise minares.

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