Madonna of the Mosque

by Bill Meis

Madonna of the Mosque
Allah’s child hidden
behind your torn book, protected
from my lust inflamed
by your bare ankle,
your naked wrists
I cannot speak,
nor even dream of
a kiss from those
rose red lips, nor dare
to pull that flowered scarf
away and let your unbound
waves of dark hair fall
out along my arms which
lift you up, then lay
you down upon our
multi-colored, woven rug
where I, in silent adoration,
kneel before your golden
thighs ... and in your sighs, I
hear the muezzin’s call to
prayer before this temple
where I tremble in delirious
anticipation while the dying
sun descends behind
gray forbidden mountains
and fierce desert winds bend
over bare willow trees spread
out along this dusty river
road we follow together
toward a green oasis where I
touch the Evening Star and you
lie focused on a rising Crescent Moon.