Poetry / June 2013 (Issue 21)
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by Matthew A. Hamilton
Muslim women do not drive cars. I braced myself when I got behind the wheel. Drove across the border into Pakistan. The sun fell like a red marble behind the toothy mountains.
I parked in Musharraf’s driveway. Felt the strength of the people when I shook his hand. Told him living in exile and walking up and down up and down for freedom for seven years rewards patience.
He smiled and offered me tea. I slapped his hand away.
The world behind the black veil is unclear. I removed it and stared at him. He said that even if I ate grass for a thousand years democracy would never grow here.
Bullets are more popular than votes.
The people demand liberation, I argued and cannot wait for change any longer. The people should decide my fate. If death is what they want, stick a bomb in my mouth and let my life end in a firestorm.
Musharraf sipped his tea and smiled like God facing an enemy. |
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Cha: An Asian Literary Journal 2007-2018
ISSN 1999-5032
All poems, stories and other contributions copyright to their respective authors unless otherwise noted.