From the stomach of an invisible ashoka you emerge,
And soon, you’re everywhere.
All of this lush pinkness is you.
You’re quiet, you do not protest
when water spreads over your skin like a disease,
Or when I spread my legs, diseased with longing –
Dirt nymphette mottled with my hair and blood, still,
You surpass those stepsisters of yours turned inside out on highways to be made into a temple
My only shrine is this, your pink embrace, humid, solitary.
Priyanshi is a student of literature, amateur hindustani classical vocalist and an avid watcher of cat videos. She sometimes blogs at thethirdfig.blogspot.com
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