Custody over my tactlessness, my nonsense
And whatever else comes out of my mouth
So that she can stick it in a frame and
Prop it up on her sewing table
But fancy needlework has ruined her eyes and
The Muslim women who pay her for
Embroidering and beading
The eyelet and fringe of their scarves are
Sisters whom she will see
In Paradise
So she doesn’t complain
Instead her eyes blur dreams of scarves
With no top and no bottom
Endless hem wind-clapping
Falling like a pretense
A protective tarpaulin
Furiously screening me
From my father’s arms
Her own plans
To cross me over her chest
And make some sense out of me