Cloaks and Impurities

Standing

side by side,

covered

top to tip,

sweating.

Longingly wishing

to free our

pale skin to the sun.

Walking,

hand in hand,

smothered:

thought to breath

in lust for impulse.

Searching

without meaning.

Roasting

our skin,

our blood,

our bones,

our veins.

Slowly, roasting but

cycling.

Aimlessly.

Shoulder to shoulder.

Trying to understand

the world,

touching everything but

getting burned and

moving on.

Daring to question once,

but facing loud voices shouting to

shut

up. To

stop

thinking. To

follow.

Follow.

Follow

the rules.

“SHUT UP.”

We’re repeating to

our wandering thoughts.

“Follow.”

We’re repeating to our damp skin.

They say.

They said.

They’re always repeating

that if you

place your lips

on wounds and suck,

you’ll remove the infiltrating poison.

But what they’re not telling you is

the hardest of all the poisons is

the stagnancy

that is continuing

to fill our veins,

simplifying our minds.

Daily,

we’re striding

silently.

Wearing our layers of silk, gracefully

masking our impurities.

Side by side.

Hand in hand.

Shoulder to shoulder.

Afraid to let go of each other.

Seeking the physical reminder

that

captivity breeds resilience.

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Hawra’a Khalfan: Arab woman, free, writer, feminist, poet, daughter, wife, sister, teacher, student, writer, bibliophile, ophiophobic, founder of Kuwait Writing Club, Orthorexic, academic and painter.