Some days the moon is a gold orb and on some, pale yellow, and on some, baby silver It's a trick. No, it's just the light. Or is it? Maybe it's how I think: the sky weeps when I cannot shed tears for the girl, molested by several men. Or the sky is on fire when they say it must have been her fault. perhaps she was wearing provocative perhaps she was walking provocative perhaps she just looked provocative and if only her eyes were visible through her veils would it have mattered? for then, "...the men will be men..." "...and girls should..." "...should..." fury rises through my throat burning the insides of me. My tears run dry now. my heart, out of blood. the snow, pristine, tells me to breathe deep and the moon glows gently at me after the sunset had screamed at me to live my rage.
Sangita Kalarickal is a wordsmith crafting poetry, and fiction. Her work has been published in several e-magazines, and anthologies. Her chapbook Mamina is forthcoming in early 2023. She utilizes her left brain at her day job in technology. Dr. Kalarickal lives in Minnesota, USA with her husband, kid, and her garden which she shares with wildlife, sometimes happily.