they told her sabr and iman walal,
while bringing her food
to fill her hungry fridge.
they came in twos and threes.
sometimes together, usually women
draped in long scarves that hid their ankles
with tight expressions on soft, pudgy faces.
they opened wide curtains
and windows, hoping to let light in
to her heart stitched shut
from the memory of her thighs
sticky with blood and her toilet
filled with the tiny corpse
of the dream she had
that would save her marriage.
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