They would have her mind pots and pans,
or, not cooking, chained to a bedpost
with her braided chador and her hair.
They measured in square inches the distance
between her heart and the world
and would have her sing to empty cots and cans.
They had decreed her body-without-mind,
but feared she would not leave her fate to men
maddened by a woman’s bared mind or hair.
They had chained her husband to a rock,
and chained her to a bedpost, they’d cook
two hearts in their boiling pots and pans.
They knew she’d break bounds, take her cry
to the street, and the echo of her song
would charm stones but burn their aching ears.
They sent soldiers to shoot her dead at noon
to still her voice and break her husband,
she’d slipped the chains of braided chador and her hair
she’d not be content merely minding pots and pans.