We were born within perfect walls
Washed in lime, sanctioned
By wild rains
That fell mad upon our houses of stone,
Lashing bluebirds
In the drowning juniper shade
Of some rotting ark.

Our flesh was regarded by the sweet winds,
Each blossoming cusp, each
Smouldering lily tamed within
Hopscotch boxes, behind
Linen veils.

Whereupon came the hounds of that forgotten beggar,
The holy, the true and the masculine.
And how well these blessed beasts,
Upon His careful instructions,
In His love,
Licked the sin off our bones!

Our mothers kneeled
Before wooden altars that they built for us upon a hill,
Before deep valleys of sanctioned sin,
Before blooming oleanders by little streams
From which we drank in hopes of death.

They grope our flesh and pet our brow,

And tell us we mustn’t be loud
In our fancies and our childish games,
And the ancient fallacy of our inherited shame.

Creased with care, cautioned and shunned,
Made into icons, coloured by a sun
Vile and bright,
Staining our loins, exacted
By the bloodless,
Banished by our kind
To bordellos of the holy
And voluptuary shrines
Of their ravaging lust.

And our pyres burn bright,
Watched by the law,
And our pyres burn bright
By the rotting ark,
And our pyres burn bright
As the demons cry foul
And our pyres burn bright
As the gods behold
The ashes of their own:
The daughters of Abraham, the Jezebels forlorn.

Arsch Sharma

Arsch Sharma has been an independent writer for three years, and his works include poetry, short stories, screenplays and novellas. His most recent work is a novella titled ‘Miasma’, a fictional journal in an existential tone.