Rosalyn Marhatta

My glass prison floats on sunrise,
a sealed bottle, a relic
of summer-love beach parties
and kisses after streams of beer
splash a moat around a sand castle.

I am a paper genie in a thin dress
made of memories
and lace scribblings on onionskin
held prisoner for dreams of drink
and cold sandwiches spilling with mustard.

Release me from my glass enclosure.
Read me and I will feed you mint tea
and pomegranates at the Mataam in Giza
where the Sphinx smiles.