in sari pleats. You have to first
pick the biggest pin from the bundle
and throw safety from it.
Contemplate whether to wear
or to not wear. Wear, not wear, wear, not…
You wear.
Because the nightmares of sari slipping in public
have haunted you enough.
It holds your sari in a place, lady-like.
Like a lady, lady-like.
Suck in your abdomen. Hold! Hold! Hold!
Look down and fix the pin
but hold! Don’t un-hold your breath.
One, two, three… three two one…
Juggle the breath, the pin, and the eyes
like a circus juggler. But remind yourself
to pick the biggest from the bundle
and throw safety from it.
Don’t worry, try again—suck in your abdomen again
and look down, again.
And in.
Into the first fold, aiming sharply
at your smooth skin.
Punch its sharp end through the second fold.
And lock it. Lock,
lock yourself within a feeble wire-folding.
Pick the biggest from the bundle
and throw safety from it.
Abdomen out, eyes up and relax.
Keep yourself safe from the pin,
whose safety you had thrown in the bin.
While you sit through that seminar or
That uncle’s daughter’s son’s wedding,
don’t drink or eat too much.
It might upset the pin.
It might pierce your little abdomen
and brutally slaughter your organs.
A blood bath.
A bath of blood.
Because you had thrown the safety
into the bin.
That concluding line though <3 "Because you had thrown the safety
ReplyDeleteinto the bin."!
This poem works on multiple levels. When I began reading it, I was delighted because it offered insight into the art of tying a sari (at least parts of it), something with which I was completely unfamiliar. But as I read on, I was like, hang on, there is more to it! Great job!
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