'Dibs Camp, the Women’s Prison' by Choman Hardi

You do not die! Not when you want to.

Not when you see your strong husband, the big

brother in his own family, kicked bloody by a group

of men equipped with loaded guns and hatred.

Not when your beautiful teenage daughter

is handpicked by soldiers, never comes back.

And for the rest of your life you are left to wonder:

was she sold to prostitution? Does she still live?

Not when your son withers in your lap

and he cries until he can no more, when the last thing

he asks of you is ‘cucumber’, and you give him

a green slipper to suckle on, because he is beyond

knowing the difference. No. Not even when

the rest of your children grow fed up with

your black garments, secret tears, headaches

when you smell cucumber. You do not die.

This poem was culled from The Guardian Carol Rumens poem of the week.

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