Epitaph of a Brown Family – Adithi Chandra
A Husband’s Affection
They meet in a temple’s chilly basement,
not on their wedding day.
He kneels in front of her and sticks out
his tongue. With a drawing pin,
she pierces
a moth
to it & he folds like palms
to a prayer.
She says his mouth is a light,
kisses drawing her,
into the flames.
They tried to warn her,
said, marrying for love is
escaping winter
by bathing
in fire.
A Mother’s Fear
Her husband’s nails are long enough
to split mustard seeds,
yet cannot scrape up enough money,
to flick
a life
into their open mouths,
so they eat plain rice,
at the carrom board. The dinner table drops
stones, from Persian apricot flesh,
into a fertile crescent,
womb of mold & moisture.
The curved crack in the floorboard
smiles & gulps.
Palms facing up, the sagging floor cups
the couple, walls leaning close enough
to kiss. From his lips cheap whiskey drips,
into ripening
bellies, bruised skin stretching to burst
into pulp,
he waters the bud,
between his wife’s legs.
Their daughter drinks
habits
from her father.
A Daughter’s Culture
i.
I am an actress, looping bunny ears,
performing American shoelaces,
fingers,
explaining the unfamiliar ties,
my mother only knows velcro;
strapped muddy sandals, not,
blinding white canvas shoes,
quietly she sips chai, watches my
hands,
speak in place of our forgotten
tongue.
ii.
Nouns, verbs, and adjectives,
the body parts of English,
my father understands separately,
But not as a whole human,
I wonder if he realizes,
what it’s like to be a woman.
I learned manipulation at five,
still touching my
thumb
to each of my digits,
performance for men,
before long division,
an actress versatile,
my language is bared
teeth,
mistaken as a smile.
iii.
When I first got my period,
Aunties said I am a woman at eight.
Ajjis and didis warned, my
hips
will grow and curve, like heavy
papayas, maturing and falling,
into a hungry white boy’s plate,
spitting out the unwanted seeds,
of my culture, pieces of me,
hit ground like Ma’s pregnant
belly,
she begins to bleed, childbirth,
is a nesting doll closing over flesh,
bones sewn into another’s
skin,
mothers’ rage ironed into daughters’
flesh & death can’t prevent me
from inhabiting bodies of the future.
We are a parasite, an orchard of people
inside an apple, our
hearts
branch inwards instead of out.
Cut it open and see the rage,
of thousands before me,
staring back.
Hi, I'm Adithi Chandra (she/her), a sophomore in high school living in Delaware. I have previously won the Gold Key award for humor in the Scholastic Art and Writing Competition, and as a young writer, I have yet to be published. I love to crochet chunky blankets and listen to spoken word poetry!
