Hijra

I don't have mounds of flesh
that I thrust proudly
like an army officer,
I don't see men
calculating the ratio of my hip size
and comparing it to my waist,
no one with his X-ray xenophobia determines
the circumference of my buttocks
or validates the volume of my lips.




Because I am not a woman
made to woo a man
maybe a woman 
trapped in the body of a man,
not coming of his ribs
but from my mother's uterus.
Men drool over me
for the fertile folly
of my sterile nothingness,
their pure pleasure
is my plagiarized pain.

The carelessly crumpled currency notes
curb a craving
that is charity for them
my price for a night,
I sing and dance
I clap, like drums
behind the face paint
is crafty calling
for a world that burns
and turns to dust.

When silly synonyms
muffle a curse, respect is money
placed in my palm
when I bless them for a boy child
or call out the coming of one,
I am not a witch, I am not blasphemy
I had been traded as misfortune's moll
when Adam decided to know Eve
I came to life, my only curse
my Eve disowned my Adam, when I was six.