Halwa for Hymen

from the award-winning collection, Isn’t Cooked is Cursed 

by Hannan Khan (also read Khan's full interview here)

your trauma isn’t breakfast

but still, they crave you to knead it

hammer it round, hammer it soft, hammer it rise

the kitchen transpires as your therapist

but it doesn’t howl questions

only sculpts burns, the gas hisses like gossip

the rolling pin doesn’t roll back time

they roar: inherit to cook, inherit to tarry, inherit to swallow

you murmur nothing

you chew your muted glossa

he grazed you; you whispered her, she slapped and bashed you

she bellowed: let him drift away

forget it, forget yourself

every flame in this haven fathoms your shame

every plate clinks with hushedness

every mirror reflects a face that isn’t you

but you hold on staring

and it holds on staring back

they pray while you bleed, they savour while you flinch

they fast while you faint

because a girl’s honour isn’t her veracity

her veracity isn’t her body

her clayed body isn’t her own

but still — she has to knead, has to roll, has to rise

not for her contusions’ rehabilitation but for her wedding night

a raita of abashment, a naan of nerves

halwa for hymen, kheer for keeping quiet

you broke down, so they engineered you a dowry

you implored for therapy, they booked a beauty parlour

you beseeched for healing; they handed you henna

what isn’t mouthed is cooked; what isn’t cooked is cursed 

what is cursed is married; what is married is choked off

your assault isn’t morning meal, but you cater it every aurora

with a grin, they tattooed on your mouth

because beti, you have to mold it round, 

have to mold it soft, have to mold it rise 

and you never have to fish for why

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Hannan Khan is a Pakistani poet and scholar of literature and linguistics. A nefelibata, he writes between haibun and heartbreak, ghazals and ghosts, intimacy and apocalypse. When not distorting the ordinary into song, he devours dark thrillers, sips coffee, and reads Manto. Instagram: @hannan.khan.official