Chapter 1
In Anatolia,
there lives Ayshe.
She doesn’t go to school.
More than anything, she wants to.
Weaving carpets has made her eyesight dim.
Weave and stretch,
make and go into patterns,
Ayshe’s clothes are hand-me-downs,
patchy from too much sewing.
Her donkey is her constant companion.
She gives him sugar,
from pockets with too many commitments.
Mrs Sadiye is Ayshe’s mother.
There are ten girls, and one boy.
Ayshe mothers her sisters,
carrying them on her back.
The big pan is where they boil the nappies,
Mrs Sadiye is constantly boiling, cooking.
Her five feet nothing is a source of pride.
A woman shouldn’t be taller than her man.
Every inch on the look out for a child in trouble.
In Muslim Festival of Sacrifice they eat meat.
Which they have to be grateful for.
Eggs they get on a Friday,
From the chickens which go to the neighbours.
Mrs Sadiye has a vegetable patch which ekes out
the subsistence of the evening meal.
When the chickens go next door,
there’s an almighty row.
