To Mother Unsaved/Women Crossing Lines
by ASHLEY SOMWARU
in Spring 2020
Heather Polk, Vulnerable, But My Love is My Shield, 2020
To Mother Unsaved
close your eyes
in this body/ unbodied space
you are in Chitrakoot
flowers are being sown
into a mala to place around
around there was a deer somewhere golden then
gilded now covering for the arms that will grab
you feel the breeze rivering
to douse your arm in goosebumps
your cries— ignored by hunched trees shrinking
mountains—there's a name vibrating the ground
you've been thrown to
falling sun shadowing your face
is your blush the stain of your
lips crescent
and you call out you keep calling
calling Raghuveer
like the sindoor tika
dusting the forehead his gaze
binds you to him
but he still hasn't come
stay in this place a place
in the body
—not in space—where the ocean killed
following footsteps where tongues now slither
to your ears laughing at your silt soaked skin
where you can feel
his fingertips on your arm
feel
tears trail the cheek
untrailing when fingers swipe
grass to sword through
the body in this moment
the unwanted hands reaching for you
don’t open your eyes
Women Crossing Lines
are planted in golden
urns to be digged
out of the Earth
are named Sita
are gifted to men
who can lift a bow
are shoeless when
they follow behind
their husbands into
a forest full of berries,
gilded demons, men
who grab by the waist
are dragged through
the air and into a garden
where even the leaves
on the tree covering
their shivering forms turn
away from their cries
are watched by stone
eyes as they jump into fire
are abandoned at the river
are mothers of children
who have never
seen their father’s face
are sent back
to the Earth they were
dug out from
are named Draupadi
are married more than once
are dragged by the hair
and stripped of their
clothing because women
who’ve been with many
men must be touched
by any hands that want
to unravel the cloth
from their bodies
are only able
to wash their hair
with the blood
from Duryodhan’s thighs
the man who decided
they didn’t deserve
clothing, who laughed
as he watched more
than the ankle peep
through the saree
are wandering, shapeless
looking for water
are named Sati
are married to men
with dreadlocks and
skin covered in ash
are not welcome
in their father’s home
are toasted by agni
lit for puja work
are begged by men
to come back
are reborn again and again
are the hands that spear
the heads off bull bodied men
are the weight that sit
on men’s tongues
are eight armed
are able to take the dirt
off their skin and create
a child with an elephant’s head
are given many names
are the force it takes
to move your toes
are pulses in the forehead
are prayed to when
the sun leaves and the air
suffocates one in darkness
are the flame of a diya
are chiseled with white marble
are dressed in red sarees
and given hair that
flows down their back
like how the Ganga flowed
down from the skies
are always painted
with a smile that never
drops even as a man
says they’re in every
painting, murti, scripture
he must bow down to
and he doesn’t need one
more woman to offer jasmine,
sindoor, cloves, neem leaves
are rooted out of their spot
in the altar to make room
for a man you shouldn’t
look in the eyes
are placed on the top
shelf where you can’t
see their feet
Ashley Somwaru is an Indo-Caribbean woman living in Queens, New York. She is currently undergoing an MFA poetry program at Queens College. Her work seeks to give power to women, using her experiences as a child, religious stories, and superstitions to highlight the misogyny and abuse that have been silently prevalent in her culture.