My goddesses tell me that
before i bow down and pray, i
must kneel and heed i must kneed
and heed the answers that become
mogras in the mouths of maa kali
a world you can enter but
a world you cannot live in
a world safe enough but not enough
the chrysanthemum rots in the two sinuses of my faith
my goddesses tell me that who knows
how anything in the universe works?
they say they don’t know how them
mogras bloom and how they creep
in a crown of vines or why tongue rots
some hurt by thorns that persist but never reveal some dance in a trance
i overcame a self-standing treaty
becoming boundless in the imaginary
streak of social stigmas but steadying
i have little hands-funnelled garland for
maps and legs that warp zones and ride bikes
also time ships with multani maati on my cheeks
god must be both transcendent and trying to be pretty
and also immanent- the ghee from my lips
milk but also the seed in the womb
of all the unborn cows and the black shadow on my eyes
Shalini Singh is from India and now resides in the dying prairies of Iowa, where she writes fiction, nonfiction and mostly poems. If she were a collage, she would be James Rosenquat’s Source for Nasturtium Salad, a layered nomad with distinction in various disciplines. She loves binge watching, editing for DIAGRAM, Flyway and day-dreaming.