Birthright

I dreamt of my hands stained
with turmeric, skin smeared
with ghee, streaks of sindoor
painted across my face, an om
carved into my wrists—I was
an unwanted offering laid bare
to rot. The women in my life
have always been closest to god,
but when my grandmother dies,
its the boys who perform last
rites. Her youngest son feeding
the fire, my brothers & cousins
circling the casket, carrying her
to the furnace. & there I was,
hands folded in front of me as if
my grandmother wasn’t my first
god. I was supposed to be a boy.
Sometimes I think I could have
been revered as a boy. I imagine,
stretching taller, lowering the octave
of my voice, building callouses
on my palms. Would they trust me
then, to protect? My grandmother
taught me the prayers, the rituals,
but when my family looks at me
they see girlchild, they see womb.
There is no world in which I get
to be a god. Or a boy. Most days
I am Durga’s simmering wrath,
a muffled threat. At night I sculpt
myself out of wet earth, fashion me
into something grounded, solid.
& then, every morning, I wake,
smelling of jasmine & incense,
still a girl.