Woman

Woman

and this is how a rebellion begins: at midnight.

Rushati Mukherjee

the first stroke feels like the first touch of a lover’s kiss; the coolness against the skin drags;

no pain: only a sense of cleansed, limpid bliss.

the black appears slowly, white, naked, fresh the darkness peeled apart chop by chop gently, lovingly:

the pink is revealed, glistening ruby-red, hidden in the flesh like

a bride in some Naidu song, large eyes behind gauze curtains, half-shy on the wedding day -

holy, translucent, inviting.

18 Yours Truly

the curls wash away with a damp cloth and soap carefully, carefully not to slice the paper thin

skin

and it blooms.

i am nine years old meeting myself in the mirror: the folds i had not dared to touch since they first grew and bled

i am a woman i am born at last.

and this is how a rebellion begins: in the depths of a wild night while cities burn, i gaze into the mirror, sitting, legs spread apart, timid-tender as a babe and now a queen.

unclothed unblemished unflinching

beloved.

19 Chaicopy | Vol. III | Issue I