Wednesday, 3 December 2014

Mohammed.


Forced through the scarred and screaming space
Stitched up half a lifetime ago
You ripped your way where fibroblasts had worked their miracle.
Emerged, in violence, bloodied and lay limp
Before your first breath became a cry
That joined your mother's agonised sobbing.
A wanted thing, no embarrassment of female parts
To turn the wondrous moment into shame.
No need to think of your turn, of the time
To gouge and cut and tear your sex,
And hear your screeching pain.
Your time will be swift and simple, surgical and clean.
A fraction, a moment before awareness.
For now, there is just the joy of seeing you,
A boy, Mohammed.

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