During the Umayyad Caliphate…

For their lovers, they swipe rose-water
of Mosul and filch cramoisy roses
from the souk. From the Caliph’s
garden they sneak damask roses.
When sunset burns with cirrus petals,
they cook on a fire of canes and stems
scented with a drop of attar.
They feast their lovers on rose-hip jam

and stories—djinn that feed on dew
that falls the hour the rose first blooms,
afreet that live on fragrance alone.
Are they going to spout this stuff till dawn?
the women wonder. They swallow a yawn.
Human love needs root ball and thorn.