Four gray walls in four

straight lines. A window

hangs on the wall, a

teardrop of broken promises.

A weight hangs on her scarf 

wrapped head,

she remembers a time

when she could smell brewing

tea and hear the birds hum.

She waits for her husband to return,

she would read a magazine

with pretty clothes in it and

articles about make up,

like the women in America, 

but she won't.

She doesn't know how to read.

Her baby boy sleeps on a mat, 

her baby girl sleeps in the garden;

her son breaths air while

she reeks of oppression.

It has been years since

she breathed air,

the teardrop is rusted shut.

She has cleaned her prison two times

that morning,

but it is small and she has

run out of things to do.

If she lived somewhere else,

she would look in a mirror to see

what she looks like and maybe

even put on mascara, 

but the man who is her

husband told her no.