by Farah Ghafoor
i. football and football.
teams of bitter pomegranates crouched.
waiting to be cracked, a not-so-delighted scream
and it tumbles: round and rolling.
ii. dresses wearing little girls.
sugar honey, gap-tooth years with sister eggs.
mama told her it cracked, yolk spilling
into the sky. sunny-side-up smiles.
iii. a monarchy the length of my endurance.
watched pots will boil when nobody’s looking,
even the mightiest hand-like handles can
be broken off – dirt, a post-mortem.
iv. a talisman of anodyne.
have a brocade gown, they say,
remember to not talk when you’re alone –
all the walls are too white.
v. another something pure snipped away.
there was no reason to cut off his colored palms
or his breathing, the only thing he took
was his safety, for granted it seems.
Author Biography: Farah Ghafoor is fifteen years old and likes the way “poet” tastes in her mouth. Farah is a co-founder and an editor at Sugar Rascals. Her work is published or forthcoming in Alexandria Quarterly, alien mouth, Whirlwind, Moonsick and elsewhere. Find her online at fghafoor.tumblr.com.