Afghanistan gets its curricula Fahrenheit 451ed.

Motor cycles become chests: unshaved without a TelePrompTer.

Sepia copies of bodies turn into the burqa avenger.

I spring out of bed to put my blouse on,
Granny had already had the talk,

Spoon.
“Aaaaaaaa”
Crunch coco puffs,
Sip orange juice,

“Aaaaaaaaaa”
Ma cums on my legs

Run fo’ da ball,
Hah
Shower with ma’ friends,

I start to understand, as my shorts turn red,
Why “Ami bhalo ma na, Ami super-mom”

Let the gentlemen get the rubber;

This time–the only time,
 I am allowed to–
When my underwear hits the floor,
As the Table lamp flashes dim.

Pohela Boisakh, which rubs the sun off its eyes, and sees Pakis in Muhammed Ali’s bebop bull’s eye, can only reassert the Bangali Jati–
with CCTV.

I am on rickshaw, with a three piece on.
I am alone, or with a friend, preferably female.
The boy with his collar undone asks me in a tone befitting a saint to lift my orna from the tires so that I am not mislead into strangling myself, because he cannot bare the sight of my breasts.

Artwork: Veronika Bromová’s Open Legs from 1996.

NaPoWriMo: Day 14

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2 thoughts on “XIV. When We Stop Sitting Open-legged,

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