She sits on a cliff top of rocky coast.
Vertical fire of noon time glory glides
across her blissful upturned face and turns
to gold, closed eyes, and tires a languid hand
that to her bosom clasps her own reflection.

As adolescent hens maintain their balance
on clay pots, so do Rasha’s weightless years,
burgeoning seeds of youth, linger between
hand mirror’s glass and inner silver, while
her reflection spins, spilling sunlight and charm.

And if, instead of a mirror, she would use
a shell, then she might hear the fairway
thunder of tides revealing the entire,
not yet ripe nakedness of her eternal
soul, over there, in shimmering tide pools.

Her modest age hesitates, like respect
before mosque doors, and the perpetual drag
of stars oblige the tidal waters to rush
back through cascading blowholes, and across
uncovered beaches and dry-eyed rock pools

to clothe her in seaweed, sand and, like a mermaid
with beauty to enthral and gills to breathe.

Originally published in White Wall Review 30 (2006)