My superstitious landlord usually told
Us we should always hide
Our heads in sacks of truth.
The black words became snowy; the
Night my childhood lover’s
Older brother had his head broken with
A metal bottle opener by his father
For not saying the truth over
A bar of chocolate that
Crawls into his stomach. The
Brown blood of the sugary bar painted his lips, like a
Brown lip-stick, and dyed his teeth brown.
Yet, he hadn’t seen the chocolate for
Once – so he asserted.
But the unstoppable red urine his head was
Pissing wouldn’t let him sell his defiance.
Would the red water, rushing from the
Tap their bullets made in your head,
Make you sell your defiance?
Would the seed of death, planted in
Your brain, make you pack up your promising
Notebooks to a veiled eternity, where you’ll
Use the golden sheets to light up stoves for
Superb cooking of Parathas, Halwa Poori?
Would the breeze of destruction blown into your Indefatigable spirit,
Make you re-sublimate the quota of your contribution
For humanity to life-long babysitting, resulting from
The barbarous Hudood Ordinance,
Like the SHE in your history always
Did and still does?
I know you wouldn’t.
Norms and values must be re-drafted like the date of
Today is a re-draft of yesterday.
The history of women in unlettered tattered
Shalwar Kameez, whose usefulness
Is to scratch the crown cork on the
Pistol of the men, with their honey Holes,
No more, no less.
If these fantasies are not to be fantasies,
Your head needs to stay defiant.