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Dewdrops

by Laila Brahmbhatt
(New York, USA)

Have you ever walked on seashells?
It might come naturally—
we’ve tiptoed around eggshells all our lives.
Even the motif on a saree
has a shelf in the wardrobe.

We bite down,
teeth sewn into our skin—
while male counterparts relish
the aroma of heirloom family recipes.
Our rejected tenderness
bows its head at temples,
seeking god’s blessings
on their behalf.

We drift, like a withered leaf in a puddle—
a silent retreat from destiny,
trailing behind our own footsteps.
In constant adjustment,
we press our noses to the windowpane.
The swirl of our breath
is our only warmth,
like a snow-capped fir
in early spring.

Our bodies reach for pleasure
on an empty canvas—
we see the painter’s voice fleshing us out,
flushed like the soft glow of a rainbow
on your side of the world.

Between the sheets—
sound, our suffering
hides behind the hum of bees.
Our desires are plastered in,
woven with our cries for freedom.

No window to escape through,
no rug stitched with welcome,
for your heart to fly—
to the shoulder of a waiting princess.

My uterus tells me:
Turn back in time.
Cut every cord
that nourishes a bruised, feverish pulse.
Dandelions die too—
and yet,
they return each season.

Let the flickering light of a candle
be blown out by a passing storm.

We have all been
a gentle wind
resting on a weathered ship
after the monsoon,
in a muggy afternoon.

We’ve heard, over generations,
that no goldsmith crafts anklets
for his own feet—
though our anklets
are woven into theirs.