BORROWED DREAMS

When my eyes spoke of the grief in my heart,
Wads flew out to adorn father's worn palm
Like the beads on the waist of a new bride,
Spinning the thread of my nightmare into
a cloth sack so heavy for my tiny shoulders
I hear his maniacal chuckle, unlike
mother's deafening silence which speaks
of similar fate wrapped in sad memories

And my skin crawled, pricked painfully, cutting
short the blooming teenage years about to
leap. From the tiny molds on my chest to
the flowing river between my small thighs
I am christened fertile, mature enough
to satisfy my husband and bring him
heirs. I didn't want to be like Mother
with shattered mirrors of ambitions, hung
over in her hut, while striving to be
accepted by her in-laws and the head.

Then, I see my brothers roam free, walking
the path of patriarchy, smiling their way
up to the top of the chain, chewing books
and opportunities to become leaders
While at thirteen, I am sculpted as an
Antique, sidelined, sent to far-away lands,
forced to bury my dreams as the skies of
my future begins to darken as a girl child.

It is culture, they clamor, I only scoffed
But tomorrow, I will be lost in a
fog of an age-long feud within myself
as the small bride of the rich old merchant
left wandering in the mystic hamlet of
childish fantasies and borrowed dreams.