Hijab.
We lie, flesh reddening, in sybaritic silence.
Haraam.
The beach must be cleansed.
Hijab.
We eat the fruit that poisons Eden.
Haraam.
The sand must be pure.
Hijab.
Noon brings the call to prayer as we sip our beer.
Haraam.
Sweep the beach clean.
Hijab.
Would she sweep us from paradise?
Haraam.
(c) 2012 Woodgrange
