ScheherazadeI eat dreams and spit out pearls,
Sing fires to sleep and legends awake,
And I always take my time.
The palm trees grow tall, but it is the wind
Who shapes their trunks and leaves;
And I believe women are just so
It only takes a rhyme, a whisper, and
A sign that Shaheryar’s eyes are closed to
The world’s mad whims, for me to feed him
The sweet, buttercream cake of magic
And possible impossibilities. For he,
The prince without a heart, needs to see
That I need him as much as he needs me.