Eclipse. (A poem on FGM)

Yet again
the rains have failed
and the scythe lies
flashing its bad silver eye
in the darkest hour
of the night,
a few breaths before
dawn cracks open
the blood-spattered
skull of the sky,
leaves it gaping
like the parched
fields, outside.
Her cocoon rustles
with the hushed glory
of the butterfly flight
of her pleasure-child,
spreading its furry wings
in the face, wide,
of a single light-bulb sky.
She ripples
till the sphere of marble
touches the horizontal tip
of her half-shut eye
for the first time,
flows onto the upper eyelid,
revving for flight
from the edge of the world
and out of the well-meaning
dark, leaps up the scythe
a slumbering serpent freed
from the clutch of a cat
black and blind,
scooping up the ball of the eye –
the forked tongue slicing it
out of sight,
out of mind.

It is one of those days
when the air bears
the hot seed of resounding
repetitive nothingness
within its dead womb
till the sunrays spring out
like demon children
thudding their gnarled feet
on her head,
she manages to keep
her moribund neck, stuck-out,
meaning only
to breathe
anything but the wind,
rattling slits and
scratching scales on skin,
making her feel
like a fish on sand
for breath, grappling.
Like a little leaf,
she is quivering,
heavy with sacs of sap
till sunrays like a
matriarchal Excalibur
in patriarchy’s bedrock,
or a pine needle snatched
from Mother Earth’s
weary, worshipped bosom
stitch the leaf up
like the second pair
of lips on her body
being sewn shut.

The womb of her mind
is pregnant with a
harvest of hymns
for the children
to fill their stomachs with,
fluting about like some
hysterical wasteland
symphony, sticking itself
like a wishbone in your
Achilles throat –
a Tower of Babel
being torn at, by a
thousand seraphim souls –
clamoring to collect
their splinters scattered
throughout your body
that had tried to own
much more,
than just its own.

There is an electric rumble
in the Heavens
in her temples, above
the two electric Earths
within the hoops –
the endless life-loops
in her bronze earrings,
which ring with a prophecy
saying – “This
is how it all begins –
in a land of calcium trees
where broken bones
pin-head twilight skies
after Creation
has been slaughtered off of
a world shaped
like the same damn thing
is what we have now
to beget,
as if a double into half
were broken into
The first raindrop,
she is made of
broken-winged flight
or multiplying light –
kaleidoscopic sight
till brimming-full.”
The rains come down
after a long time.

(Female genital mutilation or FGM, includes procedures that intentionally alter or cause injury to the female genital organs for non-medical reasons. This can cause severe bleeding, shock, trauma, or even death, and complications in childbirth, later in life. More than 125 million girls and women alive today, have been cut, in the 29 countries in Africa and Middle East where FGM is mainly concentrated. Being yet another social construct seeking to policy women’s sexuality, born out of patriarchy and maternal altruism, it is disgusting in its ritual significance to mark a girl’s coming-of-age, possessing no health benefits whatsoever.)


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