Saturday, March 2, 2013

The Child Bride

The vermilion on her forehead
is the colour of
crayon that coloured rising ridges
of the canvas in the art class,
her puny fingers are
blotted blood red
in alta, soiled in the dirt of
henna, both inane in ignorance.

The fire isn't holy
shapeless and scary
something that her mother uses
to bake rotis, a ghost that
burns in blisters,
why did she circumvent around it?
perhaps a dress rehearsal
of how she will burn her body
to dilapidate darkness.

Having tied her to a stranger
with a bridle made of black beads
they are sewing her cerements
to curtain her call on life
and in a year or two
her womb will melt
and so will her sighs
in an autumn's angst.

First published in Message in a Bottle review here


Maliny, said...

you have etched out a poignant poem out of the horrendous tradition . The way you have compared the vermillion to crayon colour is striking . good work . .

I HEARD YOU said...

Nice poem:)

Stephanie said...


Stephanie said...


Pooja Sharma Rao said...

Each word here clefts the heart

Pooja Sharma Rao said...

each word here clefts the heart

Amit Pithadia said...

Dear friend, allow me to nominate you for Liebster Award... please have a look at the following link:

Stephanie said...

Would you mind if I posted a link to your blog on mine? I think you work is pretty special.
I actually found your blog through a comment you made on my poem Suicidal Angel.

rinzu rajan said...

Yup sure Stephanie! Thanks for your visit and wonderful comment here! Just made my day!