I am knitting blue wings into my dress,
sewing sparrows in its sleeves.

I draw a sky of smoke on my scarf.
The evening news reports that Anisa,

who escaped from her house,
was stoned. She loved Hakim,

wished to marry him.
He was stoned with her.

My little boy cries. I am hungry,
run to the kitchen,
cook my heart.

When I wash the dishes,
scrubbing each plate and glass,
I wish I could clean
the destiny of the unlucky couple.

I comb my son’s hair.
My hands touch strands
of hope on his young head.
I pray for the light.

I grab my notebook,
Write that I am tired

of seeing tears in my women’s eyes,
tired of hearing their sad voices,
helpless, worried.

Anisa and Hakim—stoned.

I am tired of writing poems
that smell like sorrow.

By N.