I wear my hair in a bun, curls cascading down my face,
my bun, prim and perfect like the Manali mountain
rooftop where visitors (tourists and locals alike) throng
for the picturesque view they can post on their timelines.
As a reminder of the majesty of the place, all the while
paying homage to what I can humbly call my creation;
the gentle curls around my lush pink cheeks hover like the
floating clouds that threaten to hide the wide valleys
nestled behind the crevices of my collarbones and the
steep, winding heights that are my perky breasts,
making experienced conquerors dizzy with their unyielding
climb; my abdomen is the valleys unexplored, some huge
with their unconquerable landscape and some so narrow,
only a stream can run through; into the mystery that is
between my legs, secrets unrevealed, ever gathering moss,
places that my deft fingers — like the animals in the forests —
have been to and been lost in; thighs like tree trunks, strong
and sturdy developed well enough to carry my own weight
and nurse life (on my lap, children have slept
as they nursed and sat as they played until they grew)
but dare you seek my wrath and I will uproot and destroy
everything, everything, everything you have ever known to rubble.
So the next time you call me weak, remember that clouds
do rain, mountains do collapse, and trees do tremble and fall
but it all comes with your destruction.
[Read More: ‘Press to Win:’ A Poem About Justice]
Akanksha Varma is an eighteen-year-old English major in a love affair with words. Socially awkward and introverted, her Friday nights involve good books, interesting movies, food, and lots and lots of sleep. She is very observant, a born listener and very emotionally shut down. A travel enthusiast, she loves exploring new worlds and everyday lives of people fascinate her a lot.
