Pure

Rome called her pure. 

The words rang like bowls struck hollow. 

My baby lifted into white. 

Her feet left the dust I knew by heart. 

Neighbours who had forever looked away, now smiled proud. 

I bowed and called it gratitude. 

Rome called her pure. 

Purity fed us oil and grain. 

Respect came without asking. 

Things women like us never inherit, only borrow. 

She walked untouched through men's streets. 

I followed, careful not to reach. 

Rome called her pure. 

So she learned to be quiet. 

Laughter folded itself away. 

Her eyes learned the floor, not the windows, not my face. 

Every breath counted like a prayer. 

I named her thinning voice discipline. 

Rome called her pure. 

Then the whisper came soft but sinister in its timing. 

Not an act, merely a doubt. 

Not a man, merely her body. 

No questions asked upward. 

Reserved only downward. 

Reserved only for her. 

Rome called her pure. 

As they took her below the stone. 

Not death, they promised, correction. 

Bread and water were placed beside her. 

The door closed gently. 

Because Rome never forgets its manners. 

Rome called her pure. 

The flame lives. That is all they care to know. 

I taught her to stand straight for their eyes. 

I should have taught her to run. 

No one teaches a mother 

how to survive her child's silence.