where the writers are
Nightmare number 3

Gasping for air,
my bane of morning,
I suddenly wake up.

I know I'm responding
to my quick heartbeats
as running in my sleep,

but knowing doesn't help
in the night bazaar
that I've just ran in.

I was made of speed.
Making the right turns
to the domed keep

of oil lamps hissing
at cinnamon body odors,
the crowd elongated,

making their hurried way
in a blur of chadors,
frowns, tiny colors.

The shapes chasing me
do so silently
in the alleyway.

What did I do this time?
Was it the love song?
The book I borrowed?

The length of my skirt?
My violent hair?
Or my stark nakedness?

Cornered, I claw viciously
at their righteousness,
at their holy sanctity,

I grow, I stamp on houses,
wiping towns, dams, fields,
fucking mountains.

My deranged laughter
in high-pitched harmony
with my nails outdrawn.

I've broken my chains.
You timidly want war?
I want it all gone.