My mother tells me,
how she never learned to spell her name as a child.
How education sifted like sandpaper in her throat
because all the teachers were male.
How fear is the coldest thing in Afghanistan,
yet it burns the hearts of mothers
who send their daughters to school.
Knowing girls must sacrifice their body for education.
Knowing if she raises her hand,
she must soon cover her eyes and
fold away an identity to
become nothing but a lifeless corpse for you to feast on.
The red hijab she wraps around her head is not tight enough.
You want it around her mouth.
For her to tie that tongue and
bite the screams as they come.
To wipe her tears before the blood dries.
When you make her bleed, do you fancy yourself chosen?
Tell the Mosque how you split the Red Sea?
If you wear a mask long enough it becomes an extra layer of skin.
Eventually, you cannot pick it away the same way you’ve picked at women’s souls.
By the white beards you call so pure,
where do you find your daughter’s souvenirs?
In the grave you buried her screams in?
Underneath the mosque you’ve claimed as your castle?
Do you raise them up when you need proof of prophecy?
When you forget her name
When you forget my mother's name
how do you remember the 99 of God?
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 11:00 PM UTC