Poetry: Sati

S A T I

(n). the practice in which the widow climbs aboard 

the funeral pyre of her dead husband in order to 

burn herself alive, given that without him, 

she is worth less than ashes.

you

want to

talk about

anger?

look

no further.

take my hands,

feel the heat. you

want to feel undiluted

pure, seething rage? look

deep into amber-fire irises.

i have it all for you. 20 years in

the making i am your monument to

devastating, all consuming, unending

irascibility and impatience. i will pick the

embers out of my soul for you. place them in

your naked palms until you are begging for the

mercy i seem to hold, hold them above your head 

until you are heaped in pearls of sweat and tears of

anguish. fire? passion? you want more life? this is it.

from the irate womb of this destroyer you can rescue

the life i could have had. you can read the traumas

i was told i created. you can incarnadine your 

hands in a history no one ever wanted.

is that enough? enough anger?

or, to prove myself, must i 

burn on the pyre?

by Akanksha Sinha