Sadia Arman* for Alochonaa

In my father’s house

There was no space

For my poetry

My first published book

Had to stand 

In row upon row

By the open window

As if joining hands in scarce and dubious space

Vulnerable to the weather.

In my father’s house

There was no space

For my childhood paintings

The drawing books hid their heads

In shame and fear

Between the wardrobe and the wall

Till the action of termites, the rainwater and the daily grind of dust

Wasted, annihilated them.

In my father’s house

There was no space

For my guys.

Guys to talk to

Guys to have a cup of tea with

Guys to befriend, to understand.

All the guy that came

Had to ask for my hand

And leave in a hurry.

In my father’s house

There was no space

For me.

For my cravings, for my ravings

For my sighs, my groans, my shouts and my laughter

For all the mistakes that I made in my life.

And yet the tiresome world

Heaps new fathers on me every day

Heaps new daughters on my poor father.

*Sadia Arman was born a poet, and currently practices the law in Bangladesh. She combines her work with activism for civil and political rights and writing