Lover. I am not ashamed of the red
drip budding between my thighs.
Nor am I amused when you call it war
paint. Every woman dreams
of being a red-clad girl, dreams
it spread tight around our breasts.
We all look a wonder with it smeared
across our lips. Do we not?
Lover. I am not afraid of the colors
my body dreams to produce. Rather
I stop you, because you’ll taste metal
and think me machine and wires.
You’ll feel tin in my bones and think
you are making love to a copper woman.
I stop you because you’ll push and take
and take all because you’ll have forgotten
just how soft blood can be.
© Fatimah Asghar