We can't take a thing on our tumbling rabbit hole trip into the opulence of recompense

Even our book of deeds exists there before a warm breeze lifts on that great day of winnowing

Yet you lie like Moses in a willow basket in the depths of the earth in that dress that made you look slimmer

Your nails are the blood of the Nile during that failed first plague and your eyeliner sits like Pharaoh's kohl

Nothing matters but what is written and the grace of the all graceful

yet a constellation of young stars
sit on your ring finger

and above your heart the name of Allah glows yellow from a pendant like the oil lamp of a lighthouse