Piercework by Teja Sudhakar

"Some wounds are small enough holes in the fabric never show."

Piercework 
by Teja Sudhakar

       after Spandita Malik’s Vadhu: The Embroidered Bride

I was young—
 you can see it
 in my face.
 My nose, my lips
 slung down with
 gold. I clutched
 my blood earned
 money close to
 my stomach.
 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 thing about
 piercework:
 the needle goes
 through, arrives back
 the same color, still
 in one piece.
 Some wounds
 are small enough
 holes in the fabric
 never show.
 When I told my family,
 they didn’t
 believe me. Said maybe
 I had not knelt hard
 enough, had not ashed
 my forehead. I walked
 to the shelter one night
 in the rain. There,
 all day, I stitched:
 if my new life
 wouldn’t start, all I could
 do was re-pierce the past.
 I looped the tiny peonies
 outside my parents’
 house. I pierced them
 all through him, head
 to toe, framed
 in gold leaves.
 As 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.

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