Women

Of the Iranian confinement, run deficient
on charm, like nearing empty the gas
gauge of a 1987 diesel-powered
Mercedes.

Freedom never flourishes as their aesthetics do, fashionably
too late. They lack formal education, incarcerating
their own precious wills, taken delicate care of
by their prosperous men.

Coco Chanel is the only demure glory that their ignorance,
due to their innate compliance, allows them to abide by; she sparkles
rich dictation. These women, in desire, acquire only
diluted selflessness.

Women of the Iranian confinement carry what they believe
is their god-given prerogative, cheerless to the naked
American eye. In assimilating, bronzer caked on cheeks, number five
dabbed behind the ears; all reminiscent of a rich
housewife belonging to Atlanta.

Freedom is defined by their husband’s platinum checks
on no account necessitating equilibrium.
Stature defines twenty-four karats of gold,
not fourteen and plated.
Warmth is a mink coat, not a husband’s
cheap love.

Women of the Iranian confinement, run
unfilled on civilized emotions,
like the narrow piece of silver on the synthetic
license that defines them, unresponsive
after countless swipes at the local department store.

They live unscathed and naïve as rough creatures
of habit as I sit, resembling one only by
features, writing this poem.