Sheikha A.- Three Poems

Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Over 200 of her poems have been published in 60+ literary venues and several anthologies, all of which, that can be accessed on her blog sheikha82.wordpress.com, She edits poetry for eFiction India.

Yank

The neck of the ragdoll hangs

out in a mass of thin threads,

the head limps to the side

hanging on ragged veins;

it looks like a robot head

with multiple loose wiring

clogging the windpipe 

of its metal neck

and you’re plucking away 

all the blue wires first,

those that might carry blood

through my body, of the veins

turned yellow you leave alone

and continue forcing the tongs

with blunt ends to cut into

the threads, I can see the doll

in my mind, its eyes looking 

like mine, bent up, disappeared

into the lids

as my voice tells me to hold on,

the pain is just her playing 

with the doll once again;

she stopped poking pins

when she discovered the way

to stretch neck bones 

without breaking any,

from just a room away, I can hear

her singing

as the pain in my head explodes

and my neck becomes a detached

substance, my hands holding it

together, letting my body divide

the pain in all its parts

just so consciousness doesn’t leave,

she stuffs the thread back

into the open socket

and stitches me up

this time to ensure I don’t hang – 

Yank!

Allergy

My breathing ties up in my throat

as the night turns young at 2.00am;

she told me about watching a snake

chase an emerald,

and, here, sleeping between a pair

of unperturbed faces, as her back burns

from a night of tossing 

like on a bed of thorns,

my chest fibrillates each breath

released like a whistle

from a quaking spout of steam

pressed water pot

the walls rising and falling

with my trembling vision;

it is one thing to want to own

her hurting 

and another to become the enigma

the snake pursues,

she has survived far too many

ailments of the body to now know

recovery

while, for me, every minute labours

like an hour

forcing my mouth to breathe. 

When nothing remains

hear the wind squall,

vicious in speech,

chuckling sadistically

at quandaries of humans;

this epidemic of iniquity

scrapes the howling sky.

Emerges the one mighty

from the bowels of hell;

rocks crumble to ashes,

clouds thunder & roar,

snakes slither & hiss,

the earth spits all its gore.

Bowed in queue are

humans thieved;

their blood is hot

with greed, tasting sin 

off sore skin. Spirits offered,

the torch is lit –