A Turkish story

The rugweaver kept his daughter at home,

  unmarried.

The soft clash of their bangles said wish for us,

   wish.

Longing for a son, a handsome agronomist,

for years he worked on a rug that would have no

  errors:

the blue was disappointment, the red was rancor.

His daughters circled their eyes with kohl and

  went to the market,

they stirred pots, singing

a song about a lion asleep under an almond tree.

When he died each married a husband strong as

 the sea.

They danced on the rug and its errors blazed

 like stars.

Katha Pollitt