Silence

I want you to take me flying 

The black bull charges but I’m not scared of dying 

Not by your hand

Never by your hand 

I’m your little goat

With thin bones and latent milk forging in my infant chest 

Could I do it? 

Become a mother like my mother has? 

Become your wife like my mother has? 

Tonight, I stand before the mirror, dressed in white lace, 

Ready for the funeral and the wedding and the slicing strike of silence

When the orchestra stops

And the wedding hymn is no more 

And the funeral marching band is no more

And my mother, no more

And you, the man of my life, remain 

I like to be sweet and silent when he comes around 

This way he knows nothing of my mind and can imagine me to be whatever he likes 

This way I’m a phantom; nameless, soundless, sanctifying each second he’s around 

I’m just the right amount, I’m perfectly gratifying

I want you take me flying 

I want you to perform a matagh on me like you’d do on the lambs you’d buy from our Azerbaijani neighbor when I was a little girl 

And your mother, my grandmother, would waltz around with a rusty video camera, capturing the captured prey

I’d sit on the windowsill and watch you from inside the house

How you would slice the animal’s neck and it would not make a sound

It would not protest

But silently, serenely, submit

Blushing blood would spill into your large palms and you’d say

“Submission is the key to satisfying a man”

Have I made myself a good lamb, daddy?

Have I made myself the perfect prey?