By Lalla M’Zouda took pride in the thicket of her burning bush.
“Gardens are the scene of assignation,” she told Moulay Aly.
“First, your tongue is to brush, barely brush,
the dew from the outer petals.
Penetration can only ensue with almost unbearable lightness.
The violets must be woken from their dusky sleep,
the marigolds plucked leaf by vibrant leaf,
the lobelias gently watered with saliva.
Only then may you proceed to the inner grotto,
now scented and alive with wetness as is a fountain hidden by moss.
A recess in which, as in virtually all heraldry of Eros, blooms the dark rose of ecstasy, magically unfolding.”
Lalla M’Zouda may not have come across Ariel
but knew that where the bee sucks, there sucks Moulay
Aly,
who brushed his lips with what she called “my little honey.”
Or the nacreous spoor of the snail, housed in the recesses of the arbor.
“My bee,” she whispered, “is your sac now full?”
7 Comments
Marrouchi’s poem caused an elevation in
my body temperature to occur.
I’m glad it did–Lilly. I wrote “My Bee” in a state of unconsciousness. At the time, Joyce’s Finnegans Wake was on my mind and so was Sylvia Plath.
Best,
MM
My body temperature rose also!!!
?…well I’ll try
In the Black Bear May Mountains will I sit among the quiet creek cabins,
To ponder if we still must live in distant twin worlds.
Before which I have realized My Memory will never rid itself of the alchemical worlds of yours.
My Memory is sublime.
How do I delete that now?, all except the very last line.
Don’t die before you’ve procreated.
with a goddess.