حكايات من النقاب / Tales of the Niqāb

١ زفاف في دبي

I. The Wedding at Dubai

Salimah perfumed the bride; pearls
astride two mountains, flesh pressing
brocade bade her fountains’ lush swirl
drape in dry modesty blessings

so fleet as her two breasts’ gushing.
“Sister, one mustn’t rush something
so sweet as your truest husband’s
first touching. Come, let’s keep dressing.”

Na’imah panting, powdered her
girlhood barefoot—stood pondering
her nights without armour, her world
before the wedding; men wetting

her lips—her grove—each drowned touching.
Equestrian jaunts—the riding,
the blushing—she’d long been hushing
bade her stable into hiding.

٢ السوق في الرياض

II. The Market at Riyadh

Asalah’s manicure mingling
in oases of Hermès prints
swam; coursing in-time her ink-lined
almondine eyes, their tamarind

stinging each meek vendor she prised.
“How much?” Clanged her timbre against
the barter of their steely price.
“For you, sweet jewel, no expense—

to keep cool; this heat is intense.”
Each vendor, tending his boutique,
affected a halo; his glance
tailing her saunter like a sheep.

Silken piece upon her shoulders—
the zephyr off of them flowing—
inhibition couldn’t hold her;
she flew past caution, flesh showing.

٣ حركة المرور في القاهرة

III. The Traffic in Cairo

Ru’a, razed-eyeing the glass wall—
dusk-glazed partition widening—
she startles her driver, “We’ve stalled…”
summoned, now he must enlighten.

Her personal Prophet, Imam
Extraordinaire—he her own
perfect, philosophic savant;
her mercenary sage—alone

can he free her, this wise Dabir.
Car halted perpetually—
as Cairo traffic oft’ appears—
once known intellectually,

wise men melt in their mistress’ hands;
“Let me be your teacher,” he said,
filling both his mind and his pants;
“It’s about time I give you head.”

٤ نزهة في البتراء

IV. The Picnic at Petra

Shahirah and Rashad weaving
their olive toes through the moaning
canyon, pause, glancing their heaving
niqābs. Fertile, sweating, glowing

crescents of unspoken thoughts bend,
sending one want to both women.
“Let us take our luncheon here, then.
That is, girl, if you can eat some.”

Rashad, famished, craved a feasting.
Feigning a tumble, the temptress
eased in; grazing her friend’s crease and
pulling off her raven headdress.

Agape, not aghast, Shahirah’s
mouth a cave opened; welcoming
the perfume of her shell’s parting,
she dove in, hearing seas calling.