Sharh on Sunan an-Nasa’i 736 by Reyzl Grace

—for E. R. Shaffer

 

        
                                                                                                                                          When 
                                                                           you ask me to sleep on                        the couch, 
                                                         / you wince. You know I know / you’ve banished   others, 
                                              who were good / enough for the sofa when you tired /     of them, but not 
                                          for the sanctuary / of your bed. You needn’t worry, /          nujaym; I’ve already 
                                 tasted / the kiss of your pillow while I’ve slept— / diff-      erent from the kiss of your lips
                            — / and I’m learning how your kisses can be / as different    as the sun’s rays. / Who would           compare 
                           the shine  / on the backs of the camels coming / into the        market with the perfect shaft, / placed as del-
                      icately / as a kiss, on the nose of a molly / curled, asleep, in     the mosque? // On the nights I have passed 
                    in your bed / I have dreamed myself a cat— / the only animal    that enters / the masjid. But when nights 
                 grow warm, / and you wish to sleep only / with the breeze, I learn  how this couch / can be as different as 
                two / kisses—as two rays / of the sun. Muezza (Muhammad’s ﷺ /    beloved cat) was asleep / on his sleeve 
                when the muezzin called, / so he pulled the stitch and prayed / with     his arm bare. At isha, / I think of your 
                naked arm / by the window, realize how close / he kept     her, fall asleep / on a piece of a prophet’s robe. // At 
                 fajr, my ears prick.       / You call me back to your bed, /     explain that, sometimes, when you need / your space, 
                   you are like a cat. / I smile,                       remembering how gently / I drew 
                       my arm from beneath / your tired                                                head, how deeply 
                             / green the couch was in the dark. / When the                                      
                                     sun comes through the window, / I don’t know which of us is purring 
                                               / harder, only how sacred / the place is where we lie, / how unlike 
                                                              any other / kiss is our coming together, / how freely you—
                                                                                like any cat— / might come and go without 
                                                                                                 breaking / the rhythm of our daily 
                                                                                                                                        prayers.

 

Reyzl Grace is a poet, translator, and fictionist with work nominated for the Pushcart Prize, listed as a finalist for the Jewish Women’s Poetry Prize and Best Literary Translations, and featured in Room, Rust & Moth, the Times of Israel, and elsewhere. Originally from Cascadia, she now lives in Minneapolis, dividing her time between working as a public librarian, editing poetry for Psaltery & Lyre, and distracting her girlfriend from writing a novel. You can find more of her at reyzlgrace.com and on Twitter/Bluesky @reyzlgrace.

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