Marriage: It Isn’t Really A Choice

I go to bed with ideas lately

after hearing women speak through the radio.

The women on the radio are free.

I wonder if they know about me, a girl

who lost her smile at fifteen

when I was married to a man older than my father.

I was a child decorated with henna and borrowed gold.

I don’t remember smiling.

Time moves slowly

as I sit under the sun.

When I sell mangos in the market, I think of going away.

Now I have gold of my own, small pieces I bargain for

from the other market women

and bury under our hut.

I listen to the radio to learn how to speak

like a city woman.

I save newspaper pictures of dresses I want to buy

when I go there.

I will keep my head covered.

Nimo H. Farah 

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