The churail tells her tale |

The churail tells her tale

What to do, baba
heap curses on gods
for these backwards-pointing feet

this fish-hook of a nose
studded with a mole
and a hankering to shape-shift

into beauty only to suck
the vitality of a man
who takes his pleasure with me?

What householder or sage
is proof against
my meaningful glance

the flash of my midriff
my whirling skirt
and clinking anklets?

Past deepening breaths lies
the spectre of his desire–
ill-spoken but well-defined.

O what’s a serpent to do but bite?
Shouldn’t a scorpion sting?
And a ghost be ghoulish?

I was formed not by fire
or water but by acid
poured over me

by my husband
under baseless
suspicion.

I opened my undead eyes
beyond time, clutching
a tree-trunk in the marusthal.

I was thirsty for blood;
I was randy as hell. And when
I was finished with my in-laws

I made a husk of my hubby
then others. So many.
How I regret it now!

I can’t sleep as I think of men
I’ve turned into dry loofahs
watching as they stop breathing

with looks of shocked orgasm.
The night breeze carries
the scent of fresh flesh

and my tummy rumbles.
I float down from the tree
and bring back a man

to my lair. Again and again
it happens yet my craving
will not cease.

For I am in thrall
to a love that kills:
if only it ended me.

← Suhit Kelkar

This site is designed and maintained by GONECASE