Under the Burqah


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.




Absolitely beautiful!!!

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