When I said go beyond, I meant beseech.
You howled the want of a wolf looming behind
slim thrum of after rain, where I mostly
hiss sharp as python.
The first thing, you etched in me, with your body--
a pelage of trust, the same thicket I would get lost in.
I asked myself then, should the love I carry,
chase or cling like these nettles jabbing feet
in search of carnal and conquer. So, I smile
to receive the ache; insect-severe, arrow-shot.
Until, that night licked up whet silhouettes
and the moon in your mouth, a cold tooth.
Rushda Rafeek is a writer currently based in Sri Lanka. Her fiction