“Morph Sis!” and Other Poems

By Yashasvi Vachhani

Morph Sis!

On a hot summer evening, bite
into the laal maas of a melonmoon,
tear meat,
                chomp pulp,
                                  fruit-blood
veining down your arms
staining your elbows cardinal – in the mirror
watch her emerge – devi hair askew, juice snaking
down her chin splitting into tributaries along skin –
a turtle inching out of her shell
or a pappilio clytia emerging from chrysalis,

feet first ­–
flapping her virgin wings, shaking off
the final layer of womb.  

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When I look between my legs I see

A glorious cavern, street side café
soft and cozy for tea and company.

A kali curled up on the end of a branch waiting
to bloom. A cave carved for tales of adventure
featuring boys and treasure.

                  A cunt

candid     candied     cradled

Cunt-a-kaarwaan, a stroll in the gullies with my sakhis.
The sisterhood of cunts. The cunt camaraderie.

Here meet – cunt behen, cunt mummy, cunt masi, cunt chachi
& meet my cunt – kutti          

My cunt carbolic,
                        spiky cactus
                                           carcass

My cunt – a cage – calcified turned catacomb with time

Meet
        my cunt
                      roadkill.

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About things from here and there 

Flat no 2, Manik Moti,

17th Road

Near Rajesh Khanna Garden (or train wala garden)

Khar West

Mumbai –52

We live in an apartment in a crumbly building on a nondescript street that cannot decide whether it is in Khar or Santacruz. It lies on the border, you see – always leading to confused responses from delivery folk. Madam is this in Khar or Santacruz? We insist it is Khar – closer cousin to cool Bandra.

Last year, on a lazy Saturday afternoon, we were sprawled on the pale blue sofa watching a film from across the border, no not Santacruz – from Gulshan-e-Iqbal – a family drama punctuated with Sindhi cuss words & songs.

Mom said look, so many people still speak in Sindhi there.
That’s where Sindh is, we are technically refugees here, di replied.
The thought lingered & settled like dust on faded brown chairs.

Taankhe coffee khape? I asked.

Haa dai chhad. Time thi wyo aaye.

We had coffee with Dil Khush biscuits, aunty got from Karachi Bakery (the one here) – they disintegrated in our mouths – each fragment jagged – the broken bits leading to a city on the other side

                                       home

                                                     moons ago

                                                                         a line ago

I tried to imagine a home there ­– the same sea kissing its shore

I imagined lounging on a sofa       it broke       legs fractured

Imagined eating koki       it was sand stuffed

Imagined a neighbourhood       it turned graveyard

Imagined an almond tree       it bled

Here the bell rang. It was the post man. Is Mrs. Vachhani home? he asked. 

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Yashasvi Vachhani is an educator, editor, writer, and poet. She is also a facilitator and curriculum developer for creative writing and library programs. Her work has been featured in SWWIM magazine and Of Brave Hearts and Dry Tongues. She is an associate editor at The Bombay Literary Magazine. 

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