on her clothes. She thought about her body
first, declaring it dead, unfit, someone
take it out, please. She didn’t even dash
the baby against the wall like she was afraid;
she’s ready for the burka or at least
a mate. Give her something. Or nothing. Don’t
call it nothing, call it something, call:
a baby, a burka, a fatwa, tradition,
a reason she’s alone. Or in heaven. Or
going there soon. The PARIAH knows about
suicide bombs but no one asks; they’re too
busy. Uniforms don’t make an impact:
the P’ll stomp the runway that’s our hearts.

__

I’m currently working on a series of poems about the PARIAH, which some of my friends think is a persona based on me. Although if I were a pariah, I wouldn’t have friends, now would I? (So take that, my friends.) "The PARIAH declares a fatwa" is definitely not anti-friend. If it is anti-anything, it’s anti-clothes... and maybe babies. I’ve been terrified of babies ever since I read Sabrina Orah Mark’s The Babies: "Then the trumpets. Then the terrible music of all those babies I once seemed to be suddenly having, marching, like soldiers, in rows. Then their round wet bellies coming towards me."