In the heat of the sand
We lie in secret.
He murmurs warm, weighted words
Sounding less hollow than agreed.
But he hears when I speak and
When he asks for my hand
I see no objection but that
It is not mine to give.
In the rolls of the hills
I lie alone in the grass and
Listen to my father explode and concede.
I breathe. It shudders.
They leave pieces of themselves behind
As penance paid to my family.
My brothers want more than can be given.
In a crowd of stolen women
I lie in my silence, my protests unheard.
My brothers deem me defiled,
Themselves my saviours.
Aglow in their righteousness
Like it is enough to warm the fatherless children.
Murder for the theft of their guarded jewel.
You cannot steal what has been freely given.
Molly Burns - poet 