Not
with your tribe's spears I write for they are dull but with my nails Words
without walls. Sister, For you I have inscribed Love-songs weaving the sun's
rays to your latticed window.
To
tell me you accept The Tribe's traditions and prescriptions is a concession to
being buried alive. The noble inch or two of tattoo over your skin Shall carve a
bottomless night into your flesh.
It
pains me to see The Tribe dwell in you sprawling in your college seat not unlike
your grandmother who thought she was a lottery ticket won at home. A woman in
her twenties sitting before some tent shrouded with robes and veils carrying the
spindle but does not spin. To hear you talk about a cloak the clan's men bought
for you; to hear your boast about blue-blood the heirs and chip off the old oak
tree. The Sheikh's voice in your voice cancels you. Sister My kingdom dogs not
claim dowries of cows and cattle. thus The Tribe rejects me for you are their
legitimate child I am the one disavowed You belong to lords of virgin
lands I to seasons bleeding flames.
Should The Tribe's drums and barking dogs Shut off your hearing the
rippling of women's blood.