Shlagha Borah (she/her) is a queer multi-genre writer from Assam, India, and assistant professor at Michigan State University.
FOR IQBAL BANO, TWELVE YEARS AFTER HER DEMISE
after Franny Choi
your voice (that which makes me hum
and weep and sombre, that which turns
the heat of my fingers soft on the keyboard,
that loves, loves and loves until giving
feels like grieving and we remember how much
they have taken away, that which
our sisters sing to hope to resent to protest
to be angry to be kind and that which
warns us these scoundrels want to kill us
so we must keep singing) transcends poetry
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GODDESS OF DEATH
Shlagha Borah
When my grandfather was on his deathbed, he didn’t
move toward the light. At his feet, there were four
jamdoots, two on each side of the bedpost, waiting to
take him home. His children waiting in line with
spoonfuls of water, one drop for every grandchild
who would outlive him. My father was the last to
water his dry mouth, hold his bony fingers. We knew
it was coming. Grandfather had been sick for years,
bedsores erupting every few days, muscles refusing to
mobilize, food undigested, his bedroom a mausoleum
of pills. The room dark and foggy, his clan silent in
prayer, waiting for the goddess of death to descend.
Stomachs bloating with the angst of suffocating
between two worlds. The jamdoots carpeting for
her arrival. Sons terrified of her wrath, her sprawling
tongue when enraged, her skin the color of a new
moon night, unruly hair, bloodshot eyes. Unforgiving
mother lest one surrenders. When he finally caught
a glimpse of her, he levitated. He wasn’t scared.
Death came at dawn. How gently she carried him.