In the Seraglio of the Sultan

In the seraglio of the Sultan,
the Orientalist imagination
saw a hotbed of all the lusts,
as sensual houris competed
for the bejewelled sceptre,
of the munificent Padisha.

It its pavilioned splendour,
in courtyards paved with gold,
the concubines whiled hours away,
awaiting the call to arms,
anointing with all the perfumes
of Araby, their alluring charms.

But as the sword of lust cleaved me,
it was not to his arms I went,
but to those of his Sultana,
and the softness and wonder
of her sweet, sensuous breasts,
where l like best to lay.

For it is in her chamber,
where I would rather play,
our lips and tongues meeting,
as our bodies writhe away,
and I’d forego the honour,
of him between my thighs.

But the eunuchs look suspicious,
so we play with our soft toys,
like the little ones we are,
and what do men know,
of women constituted
as we two are?

For in our play and chatter,
our girlish shrieks of glee,
lies the hidden secret,
of the special love shared,
only by you and me.

So let them think me childish,
as befits my petite frame,
so long as in the quietness
of the dead oppressive night,
I can come in your
arms again.