Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










SHARDS by Usha Akella

I was born in a field of shards; their origins 

deep, 

too deep to find. I know them all, know

 their names.

                                           Sshh.
                  I want to sacrifice all names in 
sacrificial pyres…                wear 
                          a gown of flame…


In the coffin of the night eyeballs  
                                      stars glimmer with a losing light. 

I dreamt of horses. And my daughter running; 
                        and I running, and my husband running; and 
there was one wild horse that 
                          came for us. I remember  
 the running. How like an arrow she flew—
my daughter; and I 
bolted on and turned into a side gate. 

I awoke. The dream 
                    shard of a bigger shard


I awoke, damp-feathered, cold

Around me gold and glass 
and the sun pouring its undulating crochet on the walls
I am hypnotized by the chiaroscuro 
the sun’s deceptions of beauty. 

I awake. I 
am a 
ray of
diss
olving 
light, my 
part
icles float
ing in the
house, 
at night I am a moon
beam and 

a leaf on 
a tree embroidering the sky…

Like logs of wood I lie scattered in the forest of the house.

          
[Good morning doctor. This morning, when I awoke there was a twitch in my right eye, and a twitch in my left arm; like sparrows saying farewell before they become extinct… my hands were burning and deep in my right palm an island congealed; a nerve burned brightly like a torch, my finger joints are very stiff like fossils from another age. Yes doctor, the neck is stiff too, trying to do some gentle yoga.C5, C6… clicked and clacked, frozen like a can lid refusing to open. yes, yes, will set up physiotherapy appointments, no, not yet. Have increased insulin intake, no, no, won’t taper down without telling you, please call insurance for coverage verification.] 

this body a jigsaw puzzle breaking apart…


      Glass walls shatter vases shatter, I take
 the glass with me to each realm I live in; and the heart icicle is cracking

in a slaughterhouse

Am I a goddess, maybe I could be a goddess, maybe I can be alive. Let me chant Lalitha on Fridays, add on Khadgamala and Sri Vidya, in the evenings Maha Mrutyunjaya and at night Shirdi Baba Parayanam. Let me be a good Niyogi woman, let me be sanctified, let me learn the art of living and breathing…I am Brahmin with sanctified blood they say forget you are woman

Do you think you are a great poet?
Do you think you are a great Sufi?
Be like us. Be a good daughter.
Be a good daughter-in-law, wife, mother.
Make us happy, make yourself happy.
You meditate. You should not get hurt anymore.
You need to prove yourself to our family.
Do you think someone’s coming on a horse for you?
You think you are a poet but you are a crack.
Men are easy to manage. All they need is sex and food.
Manage your husband.
Please your husband.
Do not come to me with your problems. As long as people are good to me I don’t care what they are to you.


I enter pyramids made of shards of poems. 

I enter–home–tomb–womb.


USHA AKELLA