S O P H I A H A R A R I
crack me open like a warm nut
and let the oil of its insides run across your fingertips
let the words whispered to us ruminate like midnights prayer
pick at the scabs
then collect the scraps
of memory
feast on the biographies of my others
of the pieces of peaces home
of the learning of yearnings shape
of the space filled in by sand and time
now look at me
now let the music of my story keep you