Her grandmother
Her grandmother
is a woman she doesn’t know.
They live years apart,
separated by the rules of society,
all governed by religion.
She is a woman
who knows nothing
beyond the borders of her home.
Her grandmother
doesn’t know the freedom of a car,
of driving down an open road,
or the weight of a passport in her hands.
Her grandmother
knows the world
through the small glow of a television screen.
She loved fantasy men,
writing mostly about men with deep voices
who promised the poor, helpless girl
an endless love.
She knew only filtered versions of other languages,
never hearing them
from a native tongue.
Her grandmother
is someone she isn’t.
The other side of the coin.
She is the greatest version of her grandmother.
She is me.
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