Suppressed Furies
Suppressed Furies
My wishes—the dandelions—were
Wild weeds; my father’s decree. My dreams
Were the broken
Porcelain pottery—decorated
Yet futile and
Vain; my mother’s wisdom.
When
A brook of beetroot juice
Spills from the banks of my
Fertile vagina, a hut
Of mud and straw should hide my
Polluted and malignant
Wreck of a body; my tribe’s tradition.
The ripened melons, my breasts, are
Plagued by a stranger
Praying mantis from dawn to
Dusk; my husband’s entitlement.
Simmered pollens of
Fractured breaths, and bitter cider
Of stale teardrops
Were the black dahlias to my
Forsaken maiden name.
Poisonous mushrooms— the death
Cap and destroying angels—
Often wince, and
Look at me aghast—
“Frail Woman, how do you
survive our brutal
Mother, India?”