In my dream she enters
her own house through
a broken window, on her back
a wildfire. She sets it down
in the middle of the room,
next to her dowry
of clenched teeth
and a premonition.
Her husband
is a learned man,
but when at twenty
the wire hanger leaves
her womb riddled
with heartbeats, she knows
more than he will ever know.
The wildfire burns,
each flame a deep-set
streak on her forehead.
In my dream
she enters her own house
through a broken window,
on her back, treason. Ramadan,
and no salt for the broth. She voids
her tear ducts into a pot, hears
learned voices in the walls
whisper to her of the Iblis
that is the woman. The bracts
along her spine pout with seeds
of heat. Deep within her
is a knowledge ready to immolate.
In my dream she enters her own house
through a broken window,
on her back the one hundredth
name of God. In my dream, she looks
at me. Looks at me a long time,
her forehead a bed of ploughed ash.
She strikes from her eyes a dowry
of embers. Looks at me.
I call her haqq. I call her nur.
Notes: Iblis is the name of the devil. In Islam (especially Sufism), the one hundredth name of God is hidden. The Arabic word haqq means truth or ultimate reality, and it is one of the ninety-nine names of God. The word nur means light.
Selma Asotić is a bilingual poet from Sarajevo. Her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in EuropeNow, The Well Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and Michigan Quarterly Review. She is the co-founder and co-editor of BONA, a Sarajevo-based magazine for feminist theory and art. She is currently pursuing an MFA degree at Boston University.