Raena Shirali

“This is how everyone in India is brought up—listening to ghost stories.”
–Sushil Sharma

……..if i mandala the room’s debris into spirals, paisleys—if i paint
the walls with a simple dye : water & ground fruit—if i scatter her ashes

……..into my milk, watch them sift their way down, slowly
through liquid—if the rain comes when i slide my fingers

……..into the thick cocktail—back to signs—if the mud on my hands
looks like a chakra—if the sky strips, the crops bow their bald heads—if her body

……..were granted autopsy, autonomy—if at our core we weren’t all
red, red, red—if i chant her name under a thatched roof—if i burn

……..the roof, see what gets taken with it—if the men ever stop
coming for us—if i tear at a mango with my teeth

……..under thicker shelter—if i ask the flower to grow & only
the sun pretends to listen—if bloom, if altar, if incense—back

……..to burning—if i light the sari on the clothesline—if there are many
saris hung hem to hem—if they pass the flame like an infant : hem to hem—

……..if she didn’t light the match—if the men passed the hut : silent,
darkened from the inside—if the sign for burning weren’t always a flame—