“The dingo ate your baby,” *
Emanated the female’s angry voice
From a T.V set stuck to the wall
Machinated laughter ensued
I adjusted my buns on the exercise ball
And cupped my taut swollen belly in my hands
Lots of fetuses go to the dingo
I have seen other women lose their babies to the dingo
I have seen one thrown to the dingo;
Leaning from the roof with other women and girls
Hiding ourselves in scarves lest the police would confuse us for the criminal mother
Also because we were honorable daughters, mothers and wives,
Also because we were discrete:
We stitched ourselves before wedding nights
And could afford contraceptives
The honorable discrete women we were
were simply watching another’s infant sacrificed to the dingo
A bloated bleeding little mass wrapped in white cloth
A woman that did not want her baby dead
Used the night and the building’s backyard for camouflage
The cold and the dingo were faster than any blissful dawn;
The gym room suddenly felt cold
I feared for my fetus that did not kick
In synchrony with my thought,
And coiled itself to one side;
I rubbed my womb till I felt it slightly stretching
no worries ‘hon.’; I got a fucking contract;
No dingo will come near.
In no way do I want you to be rude or profane hon;
But this is how we call these things
Because we are pretty adamant in religious matters
where bashfulness is not required,
we always call a spade a spade
A sexually active woman is only a whore when non-contracted,
The Quran clearly states that a woman can only whore herself off
when forced by society to do so
Or when she is lucky to have a one-man binding social fucking contract
Only fetuses whose mothers were not socially bound for a fuck
are eaten by the dingo.
Again hon, pardon the language
For I can only be who I am: a steadfast Muslim law abiding.

Jamila Ouriour