BROKEN LINES by Teja Sudhakar

"If my new life wouldn’t start, all I could do was re-pierce the past."

BROKEN LINES
by Teja Sudhakar

after Spandita Malik

I was young— you can see it
in my face. My nose, my lips
hung down with gold. I clutched 
my family’s money close to my stomach,
like it was a baby. For the wedding, they said,
keep your face covered, your hair, wear red
to remind him what’s inside you. 
I had never been touched before. 
I remember oiling the broken lines
between my fingers, dragging vermillion
along my scalp the night before.
The thing about pierce work:
the needle goes through, it comes out
the same color, still in one piece. The wound
is small enough: the holes in the fabric
never show. When I told my family, they didn’t
believe me. Said maybe I had not done enough,
had not heeded to his wishes, had not ashed my
forehead. I walked to the shelter one night
in the rain. There, all day, I would stitch:
if my new life wouldn’t start, all I could do was
re-pierce the past. I remembered how outside 
my parents’ house, we had red peonies. 
I pierced them all through
him, head to toe, framed in 
gold leaves. As a mercy,
I left one eye uncovered, a stem 
hovering over it. So he can still see me
when I leave this place. So he can see me
with my face clear, woundless, wearing
anything but red. 

★ To submit to this category, check for open calls here! ★