Cry
You crouched in a corner,
ripping pages out of a dictionary.
With the solemn air of the Mullah
who taught us that a woman’s purpose was to stay
in the home she lived, or the earth she lied under.
You grew roots from your feet
in the corner of the house
where you could peek out of the window,
and watched the little boy next door
drag his feet on the way to school.
You tore the crumpled pages
into strips,
shoved them down your throat,
chewed with your eyes shut,
swallowed them
with gulps of lukewarm water.
I helped you pack
the night before your wedding,
placed your half-eaten dictionary next to the Qur’an.
Still you didn’t make a sound
when Baba wrapped you in the burka
you tried to wriggle out of,
and introduced you to your husband.
He held up a wrinkled hand
before you could utter your name.
Baba said you were marrying a good man.
Still I worried that when they stoned you,
words would finally burst
from your torn and swollen body:
an ink-soaked newborn kicking,
wailing and bold.