Dove

She sweeps through

this sweet muslim

practically ivory skin powdered

and from the side

I see past black lens

delicate painted eyes

saved for ala and both fathers.

Hair pinned and pinned and pinned

and after all hidden under soft silks

and avoiding guiles

I feel I know her otherwise as a dove

she never gives more than enough

a smirk hardly finding its way to a smile

saved like all honest things

for a vague and antiquated everlastingness.