Burning the Rupatta

And brother, yesterday, before the bombing,
an ache of cloth and gold. It was laid across biker boots, and came
from your hands, soft from study, into mine,
as a gift for my marriage.

Mummiji,  I heard him say,
You must not let her answer you back.
You must marry her off very soon.
You must tell her husband to beat her
when she does not listen.

Today, red as fire
the shape of his fingers,
narrower than that of my fathers,
still visible on my face.

Copyright © 2013, Deborah Alma
Go to the writer’s page

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