Pick up the wash, shake out each garment,
hang it on the line.
Lift each dried plate, cup, bowl,
place them neatly on the shelf.
Put away notebooks and pencils lying
on the floor, roll the mats, dust and mop.
All is clean, you say
as if this will wipe memory:
the temple dancer’s dark fingers
around his hips, his fair form pressing
her down, her full lips.
I am the ravaged wife standing by the door.
shuffling by my side
strange hands spreading my thighs
tearing my sari
setting it afloat over my face
darkness
his large rock growing in me
shakes me
then shakes me off
sweat in my nostrils
blood on my lips
darkness
nine months later
a wail in my lap
I only own
the yearning in my breasts
That which you want to stay hidden,
the house shakes awake: commands,
suddenly silenced singing, men’s
stomps, muffled cries, quiet after rain.
Shadows of its many doors darken
my mind, reflect roadside lanterns
swinging to the pulse of shadows
flitting across the walls
awakening ghosts of cooks, gardeners,
kids playing catch, women drying
their hair,
him that wrung his wife’s eyes dry
walking through the arched entrances,
figures behind bean vines vanishing
as if they heard a banshee
scream its legacy.
Girls in black burquas stroll about the synagogue,
their teacher takes attendance: Fatima, Jamila,
Aisha, Feroza, Ajan, Munira, some by the altar,
some by the windows overlooking tombstones.
Their teacher takes attendance: Fatima, Jamila,
the list echoes through high-ceilinged halls.
Some by the windows overlooking tombstones
turn to wave to the teacher, then turn to their friends.
The list echoes through high-ceilinged halls.
Some scribble in books, holding them against a wall,
turn to wave to the teacher, then turn to their friends,
bits of their jeans and tee-shirts visible when they move.
Some scribble in their books, holding them against a wall.
I wonder about the irony of seeing muslim girls in a synagogue,
bits of their jeans and tee-shirts visible when they move,
when they draw the Hebrew inscription, Shalom.
I wonder about the irony of seeing muslim girls in a synagogue.
The teacher claps, “o.k. time to go. Samayam ayi”
when they draw the Hebrew inscription, Shalom,
by the red drapery near the sign that says Silence.
The teacher claps, “ok, time to go. Samayam ayi,”
witnessed by paintings of kings and their Jewish subjects
by the red drapery near the sign that says Silence,
then toward the jetty to board a ferry to the mainland.
Witnessed by paintings of kings and their Jewish subjects,
the Star of David screaming white in cloudless blue,
they walk toward the jetty to board a ferry to the mainland.
There they stand, a long black railing on the moving docks.
Pramila Venkateswaran, author of Thirtha (Yuganta Press, 2002) Behind Dark Waters (Plain View Press, 2008), Draw Me Inmost (Stockport Flats, 2009), and Trace (Finishing Line Press, 2011), is an award winning poet who teaches English and Women’s Studies at Nassau Community College, NY. She is the 2011 Walt Whitman Birthplace Association Long Island Poet of the Year.
ISSUE:
S P R I N G
2013
SUPPORT THE ARTS
DONATE TODAY
GET A FREE T-SHIRT!
By accessing this site, you accept these Terms and Conditions.
Copyright © 2010-2013 TheWritingDisorder.com ™ — All rights reserved