a once-feminist free-spirit succumbs to bridal performance:
blue eyes aflutter,
hennaed, dyed and hairless,
cleavage billowing in low-cut corners.
She is unveiled before us, festooned between conformity and poverty,
petals of desperation, hypocrisy, loneliness adorn her bouquet.
Deaf, smiling, full of sweet superficialities
guests wonder why the rush, hush, absence of his family.
Lights cascade in an electrical nightmare,
lampshades the crowing glory,
and a wall of sound drowns out neighbourhood clatter –
the homeless man in the corner,
the howl of mangy dogs,
children’s laughter as they dance behind balcony curtains,
And that hot-headed husband yelling at his wife again.
If only one could see the spectacle from a distance –
ignore possessiveness,
trust his motives,
be caught up in belly dancing shimmies and female ululation
(instead of bridal bickering between the photo shoot and party).
Will they be happy?
Did she make the right choice?
Perhaps it all makes perfect sense…
these criticisms are built from west-eyed distance…
(and Thank God she is not acquiescent?!)
In this handful of kalimat confetti are prayers for a fruitful marriage:
she chose her path, may she feel peace in her future.
May their days be filled with love and learning...
Yarub.
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