Grief Has Its Blue Hands in Her Hair

She sleeps all day
dreams of you in both worlds,
tills the blood in and out of uterus,
wakes up smelling of zinc.

Grief sedated by orgasm,
orgasm heightened by grief.

God was in the room
when the man said to the woman
I love you so
much wrap your legs around
me pull me in pull me in pull
me in pullme in pull mein
pullmein.

Sometimes when he had her
nipple in his mouth she’d whisper
Allah –
this too is a form of worship.

It smelt like flowers the last time she
buried the friend with the kind eyes.
The last time she buried her face
into his mattress, frangipani.

Her hips grind,
pestle and mortar,
cinnamon and cloves.
Whenever he pulls out:
loss.

poem by Somali-British poet Warsan Shire