Parvati Fails the First Test of Being Holy
A shivering under my skin made me doubt, made me want to lie down in the grass with you. I was a page folded over, late blooming and slim-shouldered, always getting it wrong: couldn’t remember which hand held the sickle, which the trident, left my blessings to rust in the rain. Ruined by nothing but my thoughts, I wanted to be plain and unconditional so I could slip unnoticed between this world and the next— so I could dream a body of my own: clever bones, a new flutter for the heart. Instead, I wilt every prayer you put in my mouth. Petal-soft, it crumples easily in your hand’s mean curl.