#poem #poetry #amwriting the muslim's tale xv

doolia awoke on that friday with bile so dark
as the autumnal tribes that live by the spring
with a joyous woe of the unspoked wheel
she thrice rejoiced at being unclean

once in forgiveness to all-seeing allah
then for the memories of what she had been
third she shared praise for all love in her life
that combined - she hoped - was just sacrifice

alone by a window she watched them to mosque
then down the backstairs to the dusty storeroom
in search of the key to prized cabinet
where her father narcotics and poisons he kept

shadows move softly as doolia hunted
the bundle of keys she fumbled at locks
unnatural her venom frantic and haunted
- as with a click - she opened the box

she swallowed - and stared - dared herself
to open the ledger that bore her name
her thumb cracked the spine - for shame
there listed were the unmanned suitors - sold

and under lay a second book
that tallied lotvia's beauteous face
in silver and in pennies neatly spaced
and how much was paid to confederates

more dead than cold she sniffed the bottles
for that which smelt of lingering death
with measured care she laced the pomegranates
immensurable malice she now confessed

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