This Fire Burns

Art: @olgasvart

There’s a fire in the pit of my stomach,

ignited by all those nonchalant remarks,

over my honeys, my clays, and my browns.

I’d like to tear open this stomach-across the cellulite

maybe with my bare hands, or a caesarean cut,

to look and see— is the fire brown like my skin too?

I will do that, one day I will, only to find,

an amalgamation of liquid stars and fuming galaxies,

spiralling and frothing about, but we don’t know that just yet.

Because today I’ll make them sit and I’ll softly place
this little hand of copper over their wrinkled bronze, and I’ll give them a little lambasting, a reminding.

I’ll remind them of their golden honey and how, 

they search for the darker bottles, the ones dark amber,

for as it’s sweeter, more viscous, more honey. 

I’ll remind them of brown clay and the dark terrain

atop which they live, and breathe and thrive with every nerve

for as it nurtures, fosters and gives sanctuary— a haven.

There’s a fire in the pit of my stomach,

ignited by all those nonchalant remarks,

over my honeys, my clays, and my browns.

I’ve not been taught to hate it, not once have I wanted

to paint my skin in shades of ivory or hide my chestnut shade

for as it’s beautiful, and it’s the hue that whispers my name.

by Suchita Senthil Kumar

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