Hafez, the baker, could see what I mean;
If she were a spice, she’d be cinnamon.
It’s both terrifying and exciting,
The idea that she’d see other men.
Oh God, I’d sell my soul to watch her walk;
Hear my prayer, and grant me this sin. Amen.
I heard the great poets of Shiraz sing
Through olive vein-lines of her Persian skin.
I know; this ghazal objectifies her,
Ignoring feminist criticism.
Reversing the Cinderella story,
She turns all princes into cindermen.
“Your next patient, doctor. It’s Roger S.”
“The one love sick for his wife? Send him in.”