Malala

Little Warrior, he tried to subdue
you and rape your intellect.
You would not cease not submit.
Your books against your chest
Steadfast with your armour,

You turned and traveled home
And he watched and he waited
As you passed, he cocked his rifle
shot his dirty bullet, and
it tore through your skull,

and spattered across
the other children riding home
on that bus, on that day.
He then ran, as they do,
to his friends, to tell his tale.

They played your video on TV.
You, little warrior, woke
to white sheets, in a white room
and guarding family, celebrating
That you could stand. Stand again.

That you could ask for your books
but could you speak? I wondered,
slipping my view around your
mother's tired shoulders, I watched

While on exhibit, your
enduring eyes search the new room,
learning the imposed changes
to a world of 15 years.

Your father greeted the press
His smile maintained between gasping,
grasping water, and pausing
He described funeral plans and
I cried, and my daughter came to me

but you are alive to lift
your sword again with hilt
in hand, settling into soft skin.
Before scoring and scarring it.
All at 15 years

You are to return to your
rapist and his army,
Knowing he is loading his gun, again.
Knowing your father may cry again.
Your father will wave you off to battle.

I held my daughter,  tightly.

Sheltering her eyes from
the news of men who hate
A choice, I have.

Her head against my breast. She
felt my heart beating, so she said.

I thought of you, passing your
predator, when you clear fields for
little girls who trail behind you,
skipping between your footprints.

I unlock my arms and
my daughter breathes easier.