On the metropole walkside, he watched in the dimming light.
She stood in the window-
frame rolling
down her stockings
She stood
rolling down her stockings
She stood in the the window-frame
her foot on the ledge of windowsill
raised and rolling down
her stockings
pale against the pale light
pale rolling down her stockings
She stood
In the window-frame she
stood
one arm stretched, tall,
high above her head
She stood rolling down her stockings in
the window-frame
one arm hooked around
one arm stretched, tall, above
high above her head
and pale rolling down
her stockings
constellations spread along her
thighs
spilling down her navel
down her thighs
rolling down
her stockings
breasts in the pale light
one arm stretched,
taught along her taut along her belly
A spill of light
She stood in the window-frame
nude but for her
rolling down her stockings.
Longing Along the Long Winter’s Eve
Open your windows and open your doors and open your
arms and open her arms into your arms and open your legs
and open your mouth and open your sex and open your
arms and open your legs and open your eyes to this
blanketing dark-ness. Open your arms to the mask over your
face. Open your own patchwork colored lens, logic left
better in sleep and lucid dreams and. Open your hands and
open your mind and your head and open your touch and
your self, opening like this, oh, like this, like a petal, like a
lotus, like a dew-drenched rose, like a thistle spilling nectar
from the misty close of the open of the open of the lock of
the lows. Open your windows and open your doors. In the
open feel the open of the pages, yes the pages and the, oh,
your pages open open like the petals left in honey and in
dreaming and in lights like the others, like the shimmer of
the stone-circled lights on the marshes and moors and the
open doors and open yours…
Gingerbread Girl
She could cut seams down her skin, thin
as red wires they might sting. Peeling
one and then another down, bright petals
drooping
to blanche the bones. Later,
stitch the edges up again, rag doll hems.
This crosshatched cicatrix a reminder
of unraveling, unreveling,
of luminescence
on a rocky moonless terrain, where
unshining pebbles cannot lead back again
to the lost way, anything like home.
Saba Razvi’s collection of poems Of the Divining and the Dead is available through Finishing Line Press. Her poems have appeared in journals such as The Offending Adam, Arsenic Lobster, The 13th Warrior Review, 10×3 Plus and others, as well as in anthologies such as Voices of Resistance, The Loudest Voice, and The Liddell Book of Poetry. She has given readings in Los Angeles, Vancouver, Omaha, Honolulu, Glasgow & Stirling in Scotland, Lismore & Dublin in Ireland, Dallas, and in Austin, TX at The Fun Party Reading Series. She holds a PhD in Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Southern California and a Masters in Creative Writing from the University of Texas, and she is currently teaching writing and literature at the University of Houston in Victoria, TX.
