At fifteen, my chest was a minaret calling men to worship;
fire burnt from the pit of my stomach, hot coals
and I forgot her words—
Educated girls fetch bigger dowry,
Uneducated is an oppressed wife
But stay in school long enough; the market is cruel to you.

Between her legs, she was patchouli: earthy and musky smell,
          sweet yet smoky, a balance of sweetness and romance—
          and for the rest of the night, I tasted her tanginess.

We men never stop for women
we are always on the move going somewhere else:
          on to our next conquest,
          a tighter squeeze,
          a new adventure—
Our heads staring at the noon sun
like the breasts of a virgin at fifteen.