Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her works appear in a variety of literary venues, both print and online, including several anthologies by different presses. Recent publications have been Strange Horizons, Pedestal Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Silver Birch Press, Abyss and Apex, and elsewhere. Her poetry has been translated into Spanish, Greek, Albanian, Italian, Arabic, Vietnamese, Polish and Persian. She has been twice nominated for a Pushcart and has appeared in an anthology nominated for Pulitzer. More about her can be found at sheikha82.wordpress.com

Plankton

after My Father's December by Lana Bojanic 

Body flutters as light unfolds;
water loses pathway. Within
peaks of life, soul disperses:
atoms wean off oxygen / 
blankets detach / arteries float.
In the moment blood is drawn –
darker than trench-ocean plants,
rainbow tints of deep-sea fish, 
and the sly quiet of narrow beds, 
his rhythm is melting. Lungs 
creep out of their cages; copper 
discs nestle under swelling veins.  
Blood swims / shoreline wanes /
sand washes over shells – rifting 
bones – a set of arms probe through. 
Creatures from the deep show face, 
their pods release like a starry sky. 
Silver wings break out of dawn – 
circadian hour on distended time. 
He watches the window for waves.

Heliopause

          Might've been the empty chair?
          Or it might've been the bags under the postman's eyes
            – ‘We’ll miss the postman, love’ by Lana Bojanic

Portal opens, sheath expands. 
All at once, in a glimmer, sphere 
of life exhales. He is blue lips
flattening into a shrinking curve – 
dense teeming stars – optical 
shadow shrouding mobius tunnel. 
Wind urges: brave particles sail
on scattering tides. His universe 
is a strip of thinning mobility – 
legs of silk on brass of comets. 
Tails in the night sky interlock;
heat within their fusion alight. 
He is the calm reigning storms 
before the arrival of his past – 
ghosts with baggage from beyond. 
Wind resists: stars have erased
their pathway – nowhere but here
to go. His chest bows inwards – 
hollow orbit binds to stillness – 
he seals clovers for luck.

Aphelion

Thin tendons of light stretch over the canal
             And today nobody will cry 
          - 'A sunny Sunday in the North' by Lana Bojanic 


Infinite space peels the corners –
jute braids on his chair hang loose 
in string pairs – gravity of breakage. 
When his eyes began tracing objects 
in the dark, he knew he had travelled 
too far. Penumbral towers of void 
surge like unlit torches. The object  
relenting; distance easy to cover.
Light years of a moon: silver bearded 
cave of his face – elliptical trail – 
inverse to mass / stem of existence. 
Star spins; he sees giant arches tear
vacuum burns and nobody notices. 
The hour is slow – speck of night – 
his dreams condense as thick smoke.
Tomorrow will be an absence of heat. 
Acres of space crawl to his chair – 
stubborn weaves ungrip solid wood. 
He thought he had velocity figured, 
cubed axis trapped in endless circles.