By Pragya Dhiman
her body, the warzone
isn’t hers.
like a good democracy,
it is the people’s and they will decide
what to do with it.
barter, quarter, touch or see.
burn it. rape it. drown it in the sea. spoilt
rotting carcass, cured in salt. impure flesh,
kissing the sun it burns
fire hot, like a witch’s hide, she’s a hag with a womb
full of blood, a crime. a legacy must be left behind.
death loves her, hair knotted in a hoop,
imprisoned
the body is weak, but the mind isn’t
fear the ugly feminine
the cunning deceiver. the charming woman
who knows better
than to leave the eye of the hurricane
or live in the eye of the hungry falcon.
and tonight,
all she did was go to bed but now she is sentenced to death.
she was diseased, they declared, and the plague must be
put to an end. wildfires like these will burn man’s crops,
hell’s fury abound, with the unnatural around, god wills
you cannot cheat a family out of the duties he preached about.
but don’t worry if you disagree,
women will always have the luxury to sleep
six feet underground
somewhere they will never be found.
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Pragya Dhiman is a twenty-year-old Indian student residing in Delhi, India, who has just graduated with her Bachelor's Degree in English Literature from University of Delhi. Her research work in literature has been published in various literary journals including, American Research Journal of English and Literature, IJELS Research Journal, The Literary Herald and more. Her creative work has been published or is forthcoming in Literary magazines such as Muse India, Tint Journal, Teen Ink (digital and print), Muse-Pie Press's - Shot Glass Journal, Free library of the Internet Void, Genre: Urban Arts, Poet's Choice (print) and more. Her writing is a reflection of the inner workings of her mind, and she also takes inspiration from her dreams and night-terrors.
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