Pakistan (poetry)

She hasn’t scrubbed her feet
in six weeks
the shower stall won’t acquiesce.
So she only stands under the spray,
scratchy white washcloth
Over her face.
The tag by her eyes reads
Made In Pakistan.
This makes her picture
a house with a thatched roof.
a woman in a half-lit room
face veiled in gauzy black linen
baby at her breast.
She wonders if that baby ever sees his mother’s face.
When her skin is fuming red,
she wraps herself with a towel, which is
too small to cover her immense shape.
So instead she places it around her shoulders, over her mouth and nose
sees in the mirror only
eyes speaking in blue tongues
muddled words too foreign to comprehend.
She wonders if, in Pakistan
babies come with fewer pretenses.
When four days later
They use a scalpel
To cut her child out
She stops wondering.
The boy baby
who can not yet see at all,
recognizes her, still.
For he knows her face from
Inside out.

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