Like Qafia to Radif

my lover’s eyes sing patterns of rhyme, but for me it’s those lips.
Fleshy enjambment where I end–stop, the perfect couplet, those lips.

Pressed against mine like Charon’s obol, death could be so blessed.
A modern libation poured for Aphrodite, both poetry and prose lips.

My lover’s smile, sharp as a scimitar, separates top from bottom—
Parting ways they flash a pearly shift, glossy-toothed kameez. Oh lips!

That mouth my muse, I tongue an invocation, call for inspiration:
Passion’s incarnation, my lover resurrects with save-my-soul lips.

Like the fifth bayt in an ancient ghazal, they round in rhyme-refrain.
A closing of flesh and pucker of hush, I marvel at broke-the-mold lips.

Not to whistle but to kiss, this lover’s embrace I could never resist.
Whispering Candice, they touch my ear and I hear, give me those lips.

This poem was featured in Volume 2, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.