in another life, my mother is alone, alight, dancing sun salutations on the ganga at navratri
Ananya Venkateswaran
Maa Durga, did it / You not ache
to kill a being of your own womb?
as a child, i was scared of Your outstretched tongue,
a thing of bengali masks and puppetry
&certainly not temple, Your blood
dripping down shiny marble and
settling, browned, into some slender crevice–
an accident by some long-gone trembling craftsman,
chisel rough against palm.
the temple dogs would smell ichor,
surely, lap up Your offering before it
mixed with camphor waft &turned to burning flesh.
was Your discus not made of stone?
&what if it were to slip from Your pinky?
to kill a being of your own womb?
as a child, i was scared of Your outstretched tongue,
a thing of bengali masks and puppetry
&certainly not temple, Your blood
dripping down shiny marble and
settling, browned, into some slender crevice–
an accident by some long-gone trembling craftsman,
chisel rough against palm.
the temple dogs would smell ichor,
surely, lap up Your offering before it
mixed with camphor waft &turned to burning flesh.
was Your discus not made of stone?
&what if it were to slip from Your pinky?
would that indent, too, be Divine? / i fear the daughter i may someday have.
