by | Apr 6, 2021 | Issue Twenty, Poetry

i wail that my ama still cries over her beat husband

I weep over my ammama counting her days even though I know brown women never die, I don’t know how she dosent know this

I cry over days spilt over the course of hot dahl and weak chai

my ama coming home to only wish she never had and my fathers absence growing larger by the day

I mourn the women in my family that hated their bellies, the women who hated their husbands, the women who hated themselves

women in my line are stronger than a bull fighting its way out of a paddock

women in my line understand pain, they understand it in order to wield the sword that will end it

my women want to scream down the street in green saris

my women want to hide their children

my women want to kill their husbands

Read more Issue Twenty | Poetry

Pin It on Pinterest