An Oasis for a Blue Wisteria Soul

An Oasis for a Blue Wisteria Soul
  
     Sand clouds flap like angels wings across the dunes as the desert turns crimson. The blood of the prophet paints the sky. The muezzin calls from so far away. My pain is buried deep in my heart. They exiled me here to die where even my bones would dissolve into dust.  
     I had blasphemed Allah. She had spoken to me a whisper in the night her voice carrying on the wind in my dreams. My name is woman she said. Hold no other God above me. Keep me close to your heart. Never ever deny me. I am your betrothed.
     I spoke the words to the sultan. If only I would renounce her and call the divinity by his male name I would be forgiven. But I could not obey. They came upon me in a phalanx forming a cul-de-sac to trap me in the canyon. Their rapacious rapiers were drawn to burn their truth into me until nothing was left but the sighing wind. Once my body was pillaged they would accuse me of having seduced them and thereby paint me as a woman of loose morals. Hence, my body would take the punishment of thirty lashes while they leered. The husk of my skin was ready to fade into the welted night of the whipmaster.  
     Suddenly a miniature cyclone pulls my arms up and my dress off into the sky. The vortex suspends me with my feet dangling. My bra comes unstrapped and flies like a kite into the blue. Then a downdraft sucks my panties off, carries them tumbling across the cracked earth, and onto an updraft into cloud realms. My heart pounds with the fear of a woman whose nudity is like the red cape of a matador for these bulls. Is this a circus for some misogynist God?
    Stars emerge, scattered like seeds in the ocean of darkness. My mind settles into endless dreams. She appears shimmering in the purest white robe. Her face is more brilliant than the noon sun. She descends upon me like a flood of star fire. Her warmth spreads through me like a warm ocean current.  
     But with such love, as she created the earth, she recreates my arms into wings and my coccyx blossoms into tail feathers to make my escape. Like a migratory bird, my inner compass guides me to a  
sunrise like on the day of creation.  
     I am a black hawk with feathers fluttering who plunges into a grotto with a mirrored pool. I gaze at my reflection in the pool. I see my sharp yellow beak, aquiline black head, and tiny yellow bird eyes. I look up and am amazed at the sight. A raven-haired beauty with sapphire eyes stares at me. I scuttle to her and she reaches out to caress my silky head with her fingertips. She mutters words in a language from before time which I do not understand. Slowly I grow taller. Arms and hands sprout where wings were. Feet and toes sprout where there were talons. Breasts sprout from my chest and my nipples stand erect in the cool air.
     The woman speaks and suddenly I understand. I look down at a pool and see my reflection. My form is human. I am a woman once more but this time with hair of spun wheat, sparkling hazel eyes, and a sensuously curved body, naked as at birth. I turn around and reach out to touch the creamy soft skin of the strange woman’s cheeks. She strokes my hips and sides. She embraces me and gently caresses the soft skin of my back and buttocks. She tells me we are all connected to the web of life. We are bird people, brothers, and sisters of the animals, plants, and rocks.  
     “I have decided not to require my sisters to openly worship me. It is ok to give lip service to the male God. Pray silently to me. Your prayers will be heard as if you shouted them from the minaret.”
     “Getting cozy with a man, human or deity, feels icky, except with the young men, but even then only when I’m in a good mood.”
     “Young men will flock to you for your experience. They will want to know the secrets we women keep between each other in the bond of our sisterhood. Men are insatiably curious about what makes women tick. You could come to like the masculine bird in its youth, especially since your plumage is polished like a porcelain doll and freshly feathered as a Robin in the spring of life. You can practice here with devotionals to Osiris.”
     “That would be cheating on you.”
     “I am not possessive of you. If you flirt with him, he might hook you up for a body rub with his wife, Isis.”
     “Men like that are credits to their gender.”
     Suddenly flames leap out of her body  
consuming her and she melts. She leaves a glittering diamond lying on the sand. I carry her gem as the key to unlocking the female energy for the rebirth of green as the leafy currency of love songs.  
     On the trail to my birthplace in the oasis, a falcon perches in my path. Before my eyes the miracle repeats. His feathers separate into fingers and his beak turns into lips. His eyes widen into hazel marbles whose blinks are like camera shutters which seem to take pictures of me. His lenses do a photo series of my form to store my curves. He takes wide angles and close-ups of my physique. With each snapshot of my figure, a phallus sprouts from his fleece and thickens in the cool air. My navel spoons the tip of his plantain. “Hey, that is my ticklish zone.”  
     My fingers become the flint on his steel from which sparks fly and his speech is born. “Such strange sensations from your touch” are his first words. The prismatic gems of his heritage float in a liquid sunshine dream as seen in the sensual light of his eyes. His clothes fall from out of nowhere onto the ground.
      Our chants are like jackals in the night whose howls tell the story of life before clay tablets or their paper children.
     The wilderness gets old, so I and my falcon man walk up the wadis, out of the shifting sands, and into a city pregnant with possibilities. Our true love is proven when he pawns his father’s gold ring to pay our first month’s rent.  
     I find myself back in Cairo selling herbal potency concoctions to men who can’t afford Viagra. They sell like hotcakes but tragically my boyfriend takes pride in his natural reflexes which leaves us in front of the television watching Egyptian soap operas on Saturday nights. That is until I slip some in his coffee and we wonder why we need cable TV with our homegrown entertainment.
     “Before we stock up on fruit, I want you to taste my flavored lipstick to get an idea of what you like. So I’m wearing pomegranate lip gloss. When I kiss you be sure to lick my lips. Ah, you sure love the way I taste. But maybe you’re more turned on by my kiss than my fruity lip balm.”
     “Yes, the sweetness is in your silkiness.”  
     “Now, let me be your honeyed mystery. I want you to guess what kind of lip glaze I’m wearing just from tasting me. Now savor my spice.”
     “You taste like a berry but I can’t place what kind.”
     “My raspberry sorbet is tang for your tongue.”  
     “Yes, please get some on your next shopping trip.”
     “You’ve crushed my heart. How could you like the dessert better than my kiss?”
     “Oh no. The sherbet is just an appetizer for the main course which is making out with you.”
     “On the subject of food, that man down the alley makes some mean hummus and pita. Here let me feed you some.”
     I reach out the savory dish. He leans forward and takes it in his mouth. “Mmmm. That is savory. Very spicy. Could you serve me another bite?”
     “Here you go, hungry man. But I’m saving the rest for me. I suggest you consume yours. I’ve got plans for us tonight. You’ll need those calories.”