the women dress in black,
their swarovski-crystalled abayas float
through the breeze of diwaniya doors
as they lean to plant two symmetrical kisses on
edges of each face. collarbones are singed with
blessings of bukhoor smoke, smudged in honeyed oud
known before its bottling by tom ford. umi’s body was
washed the day of her death, wrapped in a white cloth
purer than praying hands of men who memorized
the feel of a woman’s bare skin. when she was buried
they cried for 3 days, kohl dripping from eyelids,
marking hollowed cheekbones, offerings
of chai haleeb refused, mourning lips shut.
when a woman dies where does she go? she sleeps
on pillowing clouds: a bleeding sunset, jannah stained pink,
a garden of never-ending rivers, her thobe replaced by threads of silk.
instead she is told, it is to Him
we return.
