malalai khan

cradled in valleys of bitter pomegranates / where the fruit swells but never ripens / and poppies die before they bloom // faded blue shuttlecocks drift on dusty roads / tossed hither and thither / left to wither / ghosts silhouetted against an indifferent sky // cursed from the womb / bound to a nameless home / buried alive beneath the mountains—a tomb // lips chapped, laced in arsenic / listening to the radio for deliverance / grinding her own teeth into her palms— / she reaches them out, she waits, and waits / but her arm aches from waiting too long / a plea answered in silence // shall i serve the blood in a chalice? / would it make the anger holy then? // they sing of love in the streets and she rots behind the walls // trace the crimson saffron / trickling through the cranium / down ribs that press against the skin / a harp of unquiet music trembling within // they pluck out all the feathers / and tell her she was never meant to fly / they rattle the cage / but dead doves can’t sing / and painting the bars golden / won’t make it less of a prison // is it a sin to be a woman? / is it a sin to want to be seen / as human? // and what do you will? / you, the unwavering voyeur