You’d want me to start by thanking you so
I’ll obey. Thank you,
For tucking us in with pomegranate-scented sheets,
And lining our cribs with imported expectations;
For hiding your inflated hopes
Under our pillows,
As they seeped into our soft skulls
To guarantee:
They will be perfect.
Under the guise of tradition
You protected like wardens,
You predicted like witch doctors,
You brainwashed like imams.
We learned that good Persian daughters are small.
With tiny waists and tiny hands,
Clasping the tiny paint brushes you handed us,
Meant to color your bleak lives vibrant--
Is that why you made our cribs so small?
We grew only as big as our cages.
The paint brushes were your weapon… or your tool:
Cover the picture of mother,
Before she sagged into her gowns.
Hide the image of cuckolded father,
The one mother created with broad strokes.
We painted over it with our chastity;
Taking cover, but no husbands.
While eagerly wondering,
Are we perfect yet?
Now, we are only part of a person.
Sadly for us, the remaining part--
The adult part,
Our part
Was the part you stunted;
Sadly for you, that might have been the perfect part.
So, I won’t say
Your brushes were coated in failure.
I want to, but I won’t.
You taught us to be more obedient than that.
