3 Landays

Fatimah Asghar


 

Bless the aunt who decorates my dead
While I walk of shame my mornings to a foreign bed.

  

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What makes my body rain, my jugs fill?
Is it Allah? Or the daisy tucked beneath her veil?

 

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My body sings salaam next to hers.
When we river the whole village drinks, the drought, cured.