Under the Burqah
Location
It could be anything, a man
strapped neck-high in bombs, Sunni
sweat, dust and black curled
chest hair
a grandmother
with fresh mandarin oranges from the market,
a maze of lines beneath sagged eyes
with cataracts.
Maybe there's an extra
hand, a small tuft of soft
fur, a battery-operated fan
for Afghan summers,
rolling dunes
of curves, tight geometric
abs, tender pyramids of breasts
hidden beneath desert dusk.
Or it could be nothing
a lack of matter
a comma, pause, shadow,
an absence of utterance.
Or maybe
it's just a girl.
Thirteen, with hazel eyes and braces
who dreams she'll grow wings.