Samia Islam

There is a river inside my head
One that is warm, wide and honey golden.
Under a jealous desert sun,
surrounded by voices and madness,
I languidly slip into my river.
Knee-deep waters murky from silt
swirl around my brown body,
holding me in a tight embrace
like a hungry lover.
Smiling at the tediously routine
(and the routinely tedious),
I skim the surface of my mystic river
light as a heron—swapping stories, sharing secrets.
At times, I dive deeper to watch
phantom frogs leap across
the river bed, scattering away
in a hundred directions.