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.

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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.