by Alaa Al-Barkawi
I look like a drug addict,
says the boy in the striped tie,
wearing his cluck that
stretches his neck out like a goose.
I am going to marry him,
with the circles under my eyes,
pitying him in the pits of my smoky skin.
He chews on a straw,
our wedding straw,
tying it underneath the skin
of the finger
I wear my gold.
We are happy,
even when he beats me,
with a symbol of our love
that scares off our guests,
as I twirl in the menace
of our huddled religion.