Unladylike
In her father’s land they plant bombs
as it rains sand and angry prayers
sent west, her country an hourglass
of deformed snow globes,
trickle of broken roads, every family
a house with pillars missing.
The night tricks silence into sweat,
beads ticking red as she purses her lips
to quit shivering in the urge:
say something dangerous.
Poetry is unladylike.
In the right light
her veil is burning from her face,
a wind giving wings to its embers.
She imagines setting the entire desert on fire.
Unladylike. If alone, her mouth opens cold like Russia’s
orphaned Kalashnikovs, the men’s ears still ringing–
her song flows full of outdated weaponry,
informally trained assassin, she carries
her true voice like cowboys would
a dagger in their boot.
.
by Meena Muska
from spakbackup