Jalal Al-Din Rumi
1207–1273
"This poetry. I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all."
—Who Says Words with My Mouth1
It’s no business of yours.
Don’t assemble now.
The words have lost their jugular—
a cry, bereft,
gurgling the blood like saline.
You may choose to rub wounds,
or add to it the salt from your tears.
What an ember for fire that will be,
what an emblem of death.
Who is this for?
Which low-life sinks his teeth in me
to quench his thirst?
What gall he has!
Tremors shake the earth
as my blood pools into a pit,
its veins visible—
we knew all along.
It lives. It breathes.
It embalms us,
and my husk into its loose skin.
Bones tossed asunder,
the mound of flesh gone,
my fears have materialized.
Now—
I’m seen. I’m seen.
You lay not your hands on me.
You dare not lay hands on me.
The fright’s plentiful.
These words aren’t your minced cacophonies,
or your tone-deaf screeching sounds.
The mahoganies walk to you
as you heel back.
The earth heaves its last,
and the blood’s gone—
the cold, blind witness to my collapse.
Where are you off to now?
The veil’s undone.
I’m seen. I’m seen.
Put me back together
before I’m dust to dust,
and earth’s crust barfs.
I’m seen, spent, silenced.
Stunned, scorned and squandered.
An arsenal of self-actualizations
and revelations.
You’ve shown your back, chaplain.
The ward’s yours now—
that is, if you make it back.
Then the gold’s yours.
The world’s yours.
And my words.
