Izzat
sits on the tip of a woman’s tongue,
polices the terrain of her mouth,
warns the tongue not to be long, lewd, loud.
Izzat does not, however, sit on the tip of a man’s tongue.
When men, to feel good about themselves,
in jest, call their brothers
fuckers of sisters and mothers,
izzat goes deaf in the ears
and takes a nap.

Izzat
hangs from a woman’s bosom,
rests in the space between her breasts,
reminds her to keep her chest covered, her head lowered.
Izzat does not, however, rest in a man’s eyes.
When men, to feel good about themselves
train their appraising sights
on a pair of plums / melons / mangoes ripe,
izzat goes momentarily blind
and takes a nap.

Izzat
lies curled as a snake in a woman’s hair,
is afraid to be left bare,
says her naked mane will bring shame.
Izzat does not, however, lie in the palms of men.
When a man, to feel good about himself
grabs a woman by her long, swinging braid,
his grubby hands tainting her name,
izzat says the woman is to blame
and takes a nap.

Izzat
stands guard between a woman’s legs,
a fortress protecting the hallowed space
between her thighs and waist.
Izzat does not, however, teach men to keep their hands in check.
So, when a man, to feel good about himself,
breaks the vault of a woman’s pride, and leaves her defiled,
izzat is quick to grant him anticipatory bail
while the woman is convicted; silence prevails,
and izzat goes back to taking a nap.

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