Maya Kaabour

Edition XXV

The Making Of A Modern Day Woman - by Maya Kaabour (Photo by Hakim El Haj)Photo credit: Hakim El Haj

The Making of a Modern Day Woman

By Maya Kaabour

This is no tribal rite of passage.
The villagers have gone to sleep centuries ago.
There are no songs to be sung.
No skinning of sheep.
No sun salutations.
No nets with enraged ants to be cast on the hands
of the young ones.

There are train stations that keep buzzing.
Cities with writings on their walls that are kinder than
the faces in them.
There are cellars and rats and sky scrapers cast so high
they could almost pierce the stratosphere.
There are bars and parks
 and there’s prime time TV, too.

But something is changing.

The girl no longer laughs wholeheartedly,
and she cries like she hasn’t shared the full story.
She writes too little and day-dreams too much.
Her hands are learning to open up jars and unzip dresses
and struggle to pay bills and
 drunk-grip steering wheels in traffic where

The train stations keep buzzing.
The cities have writings on their walls that are kinder than
the faces in them.
There are cellars and rats and sky scrapers cast so high
they could almost pierce the stratosphere.
There are bars and parks
and there’s prime time TV, too.

She wears her make up like it’s war paint,
and circles the dancefloor; a mating dance.
Fat perverts who resemble her father offer her drinks and say
“Hey honey, give me another chance!”

But something is changing.

A beast is rising from the ashes.
Her tongue is a hard cut diamond.
She is God; but she is not forgiving.
Hell, she’d eat your heart out if she wanted.

She will wait for no one, cater to no one.
She will take up as much space as she needs and
She’ll ask for what she wants when she wants it.

You can hear it in the click of her stilettos.
She cares very little what you think of her.
She’ll sleep alone tonight with all the lights off, while

The train stations keep buzzing.
The cities have writings on their walls that are kinder than
the faces in them.
There are cellars and rats and sky scrapers cast so high
they could almost pierce the stratosphere.
There are bars and parks
and there’s prime time TV, too.

But something is changing,
and so is she.
The woman has awoken.
The little girl has gone to sleep.


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