Abattoir

a cat stretching. your stomach bloated.
and those awful groans. my apology:
a lesson in inconsistencies. bits of moon
rain down around us. i am caught trembling,
sweating blood on hallowed ground. scar
flutters in your backyard and there’s all this
background noise. your womb caves in.
and my sari forms the shape of a scream.
i remember thinking we would die then,
huddling on the damp ground while you
yelled at me: think. think. and then the
rajkumari was there, talwar slicing open the
soldiers, blade arcing through the air and
eviscerated moonlight glancing off her
teeth. my braid came undone in his hands.
i thought of yellowed gurgles and willed
his death into being. slow wisps of anger
dissipated and my tongue bent sloth-like
around her name: GAURI. afterward. i was quiet.

Rachana Hegde is a sixteen-year-old poet from India who collects words and other oddities. Her work is a study in chaos and blurred memories, and she is dissonant in the company of strangers. Her poetry is forthcoming in Alexandria Quarterly and Moonsick Magazine. You can find her reading, drowsy-eyed, or at http://ink-smudgedfingers.tumblr.com.