When the body becomes all eyes

On the day of Saturn when accidents happen

an eagle swooped down from the sky

flipped over an octopus that held up the earth

and curved his claws into her soft middle.

Bereft of her body armor, the mollusc flailed,

waving like an infant who has just woken up.

When I sleep, I stoop. It is a habit, a carapace, a personhood

that was formed when a shifty-eyed bus conductor

reached out to pinch my budding breast

under its white school uniform.

Scalded into silence, I froze. Stepped aside, let him pass. Politely.

“Tickets, tickets,” he called, moving to the next schoolgirl.

Why didn’t I shriek or kick, kill or maim?

The shame of it clouds my eyes.

Instead, I stooped. And never stopped.

Globs demand attention. A growing jackfruit

odorous and thorny, asks to be touched, plucked, savored.

So says the patriarchy that licks its lips.

For men, lumps are proud projectiles.

For women, they are appendages that do the ninja-dodge

from pokes, prods, pinches and calls.

The way out is to stoop or bandage, veil or conceal.

Wear a saree or burqa till you disappear.

A hurt dog pandiculates forty times a day to forget its trauma.

Falling water that gets banged by rocks doesn’t freeze or forget its glory.

Women on the other hand, we don’t exhale our wounds.

We hold them close, simmer and wilt.

To hold up the earth is to exchange harm for harmony.

This– I want to tell the octopus that is trying hard to

go with the flow.

I want my body to become all eyes

sabotage every touch and stroke, so that finally, I can

let my drooping shoulders arc back proudly

and do a shimmering peacock display.