the villagers’ story

by Raena Shirali

it happened while he was sleeping. always
does. daayan stripped slowly, watching herself
in a puddle. wavering & blurry. something
shimmered—or a solid form approached, parting
the flamelight with still more
unknowable. we heard the bonga start
to touch her. or her body looked
like it was being touched. it happened
because she caved to thirst. it happened because
she was naked in the moondark. after, daayan
was aglow, every invisible hair on her body leaning
in the same direction. she squatted down
& shrieked. her hips led her into his room. then
daayan’s tongue running the length of her husband’s
middle bones, pausing above his heart
to record its beat. we heard her braid wrapped
around her hips. toes where her heels
should be. she bore through his ribs with just
her teeth, him asleep all the while. she chewed free
his heart, took it still dripping in her hands,
smothered it with chili & ghee & we all know
what happened next.
 
 

the village goddess talks to herself while applying kohl

it’s not my fault. it happened in the reeds : their awakening, me stringing
cowry shells with a dull needle, sweat-glorious & the gnats’ quiet
 
hum. sometimes men want to see red. sometimes they see a pale
ankle & think                wilt. that day, who knows
 
why they gathered : a loose crescent approaching, scythe
without a spine. other women              will talk, but i felt
 
my throat unshut,  heard     my own voice     ooze
with gold, & before i knew it         i was singing, not moving
 
my body, no loose spark at dusk, just offering a simple
prayer. i thought, maybe holy is all they need. someone to believe in.
 
just a coincidence i wore      my best face that day. just a coincidence
they think nothing’s sublunary. every day      now
 
i’ll put on this darker                       mask. i won’t ask
why they think me a blinding                       bright in the dirt.