My mother’s scapegoat,
My father’s sandcastle,
Women’s rivalry,
And men’s dirt.

Angel and god,
Archer and prey,
You and I know
I’m neither, anyway.

Pull out my uterus—I am no mom.
Take away the veil—I am no bride.
Give me my sword—I am my land’s king.

Send your suns and moons,
I’ll guide you up, up the river.
Toss me like browned gardenias,
Pick me like a rose.

I’m the cauldron of your morning,
The frost that makes a flower,
The dew that makes a star.
Against your prophecy,
Like Moses, setting your sea apart.

Khawla Essabari