Brown girl dreams of love
that feels like drowning  

Warm oceans will heal
bruised muscles clinging
onto her rusting bones
a balm for the marks
on the inside
of her open thighs

Brown girl dreams of
a love that is drowning

Warm oceans will flood
hallowed hollows pushing
onto her collapsed walls
sinking air rises slow
in a murky tide
small noiseless cries

Brown girl dreams of
a love that drowns her

When I was thirteen my mother
Took a rose and crushed it
Letting the thorns ***** into her sides
Pinpoints of blood blushing on her arm

“This is what a man does to a woman,
What he takes and what cannot be
Restored, this what you must endure
This is what your family must endure
Because you are a woman.”

So is it any wonder that when you
Pushed yourself inside without asking
I did not stop you, that I only closed
My eyes and saw the image of that
Crushed red rose lying limp
Between my mother’s feet

When I was younger Nanu
Told me bhoot kahanies of
Treacherous masked nishi
That crept on four long legs
Wreaking havoc among
Peaceful village homes  

I sleep with lights on always
Lest the silent boba crept in

In 2001, I discovered bhoot
Wear the mask of friends
With benign, serpentine voices
That sat inside mosques to put
Innocent men in prison and tell
Small children to fear the sky

I sleep with the TV on always
Lest the silent boba crept in

Bhooth walk between us
Tell us to fear each other
Until we cast off our names
Convinced that these are
Weapons waiting to be
Utilized against us.

The yolk of yesteryear festered
Leaving fewer shoes at the masjid
Fewer smiles at Eid more taut lines
At the corner of Imam's mouth as he
Raised his hands to cover his head and
Cried the Azan to an empty room

Behind him tenuous shadows lurked
Eager to report back to an eagle with
Its talon scratched feudal lines deciding
Who gets to live and for how long
In countries far away where children
Have learned to fear the sky

It was the type of heat that
Where bodies hungered
filled in the other's hollows
tongue in mouth in ear
the crook of the neck.

The type of heat that
left hair tangled, matted
limp against the back
leaving slick imprints.

The type of heat that
sparked and radiated
that needs no language
for ******.

The type of heat that
Has no introduction
That ends only in
Exhalations

Saturdays we left for epic adventures
Through snow capped Kashmiri mountains
Falling in love amid flowering Swiss fields
Dancing wildly in dimly lit Spanish bars

After two hours we'd stop for Intermission
For fried pakoras and warm ketchup
Or cold chai spiced with Milly Aunty's gossip as old as the stained theater seats

From Monday to Friday we’d work
In offices in warehouses in farmyards
Until late nights became early mornings
And our bowed heads kissed concrete

With our eyes blind & our ears deaf
silently waiting for our stars to come

I.
My mother places a dot of
Vermillion
On my forehead the same hands
That have helped
Bury a million
Unborn babies in the lush green
Fields that the brochures display

II.
The young bride enters her groom's house
Her alta colored feet leave red
Bloodstains in her wake
A young girl trails behind
places her little feet
in the same prints and
Waits

III.
The gotar mali has her arms tied above
Her head and her legs splayed blood
Drops from her body and the officials
Frame it in a green background and
call it a flag, call it a country, call it a
Dying woman's honor

IV.
My mother places a dot of
Vermillion
on my forehead
And I wonder if it's way of
branding
Women with an honor
they did not ask for
And cannot control