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?”