Lover. I am not ashamed of the red
drip budding between my thighs.
Nor am I amused when you call it war
paint. Every woman dreams
of being a red-clad girl, dreams
it spread tight around our breasts.
We all look a wonder with it smeared
across our lips. Do we not?
Lover. I am not afraid of the colors
my body dreams to produce. Rather
I stop you, because you’ll taste metal
and think me machine and wires.
You’ll feel tin in my bones and think
you are making love to a copper woman.
I stop you because you’ll push and take
and take all because you’ll have forgotten
just how soft blood can be.
© Fatimah Asghar
Some other random works of this poet:
- Main Na Bhoolunga
- From “Oil”
- Ode To The Brazillian Wax
- For Peshawar
- Look, I’m Not Good At Eating Chicken.
- Super Orphan
- Ways I Am Tired
- An Ode To Granny Panties
- Smell Is the Last Memory to Go
- I Don’t Know What Will Kill Us First: The Race War or What We’ve Done to the Earth
- My Love for Nature
- Game Of Thrones
- Pluto Shits on the Universe
- For Jonylah Watkins, Who Was Shot 5 Times While Her Father Was Changing Her Diaper
- If They Should Come for Us