WOMAN

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In the yellow kohl of mynahs, in tenacious tendrils, I see her invisible hands.  

A mad woman who puts wasps in figs, makes life eat life.

She decrees that dumb is the default. And everyone learns after. 

That it's never too late to woman. Look, she says. Look

at these nameless trees penetrate the sky

with brazen abandon.

 

For a woman of whims who rocks the moon to pull the tides,

what isn't an act of rebellion?

 

I push my head into the peepal tree flanking my terrace,

invite lightlessness and danger. 

It rattles.

I stop somewhere on a lone, canopied ghat road 

and watch the stars,

walk barefoot,

remind my skin

the touch of pure slush, 

of death.

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BIO:

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Greeshma Gayathri is from Coimbatore, India. She writes from a deep need to praise the beauty of all that she sees. Her work has previously appeared in The Alipore Post and Pop the Culture Pill magazine.