Draupadi’s Oath
I’m pulled
near nakedness
by men, lip-licking
and thigh-rubbing,
their hunger raw
summer odor of monsoon,
unearthed grass root.
I grind shame,
like cardamom, down
in my mortar mouth,
teeth clenched tight.
In a silent prayer,
my sari becomes endless:
a river pouring
emerald from the temple,
sacred hips.
Jackals sing omens,
warning days
these men will see
me again, their eyes
closed, bodies open.
Their blood
on my pestle fingers,
I will twist the length
of my hair
into a braid,
paint it shining saffron.
Insatiable
I bring a man in
my apartment. He sees
the vibrator I left
by the sink, says it’s hot
that I grind clit
and hand. After I fuck
him, we never speak
again. I throw myself
on the floor of my car
to bathe in spilled
sour wine. I stitch
crumpled receipts
into a skirt too short.
I hunt in a bar,
lusting bodies. Broken
glass cuts my bare heels.
I bleed on every block,
tree, and church. I want
to fuck the God
I’m supposed to fear.
I eat the moon,
then stars. I scoop
and shove them
in my mouth, burn
my tongue on their cores.
It’s hot that I swallow
myself whole.
