The right kind of woman will
inspire affection, regard, trust.
Not promiscuity, never lust.
Bred by a mother equally right,
she knows to avert her eyes to
innuendoes, telling smiles.
In crowded buses, shops, streets,
she knows to shut tight, bud-like,
relinquish space, circumscribe limbs.
Above all, she knows the prudence
of holding her tongue, of choosing
silence’s worth over wordy rebellion.
Schooled to surrender in dark
rooms, she knows, unasked, to
feign desire, moan, stifle, sigh on cue.
On her forehead, she had a
third eye to emit fire, take sides,
rake storms. Last night, its lid rusted
with disuse fell out, and the right kind
of woman laughed herself to death
over all she had left undone, unsaid.
- from Stitching a Home (2021)