This morning; Afghanistan women,
from Herat to Kabul,
are shredding their celebratory
songs and ululations,
stuffing them in black refuse bags,
placing them on the road side.
The Taliban refuse truck is coming,
to dispose of them into
the dump of fire.

In Ak Bolak
In Mir Zakah
There are desperate snapping sounds;
young girls are breaking pens.
A pen in a girl’s hand is treason.

Afghanistan women’s ears are chimneys,
discharging a plume of purple smoke.
Their heads have become
crematoriums of pages.
The Taliban is coming;
there should be no traces
of books in their brains.

Afghanistan women
are scrubbing traces
of ink and knowledge from their skin.
They can only use the alphabets
they collected in the last twenty years
to write their own epitaphs.
They are unpinning and folding away
their empowered minds,
like tent men after a funeral.

This morning; the Afghanistan soil,
from Paktiya to Daykundi,
is sprouting spikes and quills
lusting after children’s and women’s heels.
Women are surrendering their names
in exchange for hollow letters.

This morning; Afghanistan women,
have dissolved into crippled wind,
in a hijab prison.


Photo by Idina Risk from Pexels