Under the Burqah

It could be anything, a man

strapped neck-high in bombs, Sunni

sweat, dust and black curled

chest hair

a grandmother

with fresh mandarin oranges from the market,

a maze of lines beneath sagged eyes

with cataracts.

Maybe there's an extra

hand, a small tuft of soft

fur, a battery-operated fan

for Afghan summers,

rolling dunes

of curves, tight geometric

abs, tender pyramids of breasts

hidden beneath desert dusk.

Or it could be nothing

a lack of matter

a comma, pause, shadow,

an absence of utterance.

Or maybe

it's just a girl.

Thirteen, with hazel eyes and braces

who dreams she'll grow wings.