You tell me in Afghanistan women paint their fingernails, have manicures as secretly as rainbows stalk a thunderhead. Bodies hanged to thread a point -- symbols of psychotic sockets grab whatever graces them. If 9/11 woke me up to nightmares you have worn like clothes, then grit will act and dust to dust will hurl the tyrant from his throne. Love should render hate a eunuch scrambling to find his balls. We've never had our emerald grass yellowed by peine forte et dure. I hesitate to lift black wool -- let you bleed on ivory skin. But this regime -- this muscled horror -- has amputated liberty. I limp on tent pegs of your home, reduced to toothpicks digging up the old decay, uncross my granted thighs and stand. Behind your shrouds lie prisoned dream states sculpted 'til they don’t exist. You mention rape -- as common as a wing-less fly. Conch of woman isn't meant to be a tear duct channeling abiding terror. You were never born to be an ash tray for their penises.