The Wind Whimpers
By: Veerangana Praniti
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a newlywed’s kitchen--
she is told about the amount of salt that he likes, not to put too much sugar, as sugar troubles him about when to give him his pills his syrup, his tonic, and the pitcher of that ill-smelling stuff and as she grapples for clarity amidst a blur of order and a haze of instruction the wind whimpers a war widow’s bedroom-- her nails bitten off, and dried blood collected on the sides of her finger-cushions as she pulls off her skin--her movement shivering, uncontrolled her palms clammy, her fingers cold and as the blood rusts upon the skin and I believe that I can hear the soft sigh of rust, as it retires upon the surface of cold, indifferent iron winding itself around a heart that has frozen over time and amidst the rising bitterness in a mouth fill of mist mist, sprinkled with bullet powder the wind whimpers my grandmother’s hands-- are a canvas for the yellow of turmeric the azure of in-stains and the orange of a marigold blossom’s heart and as the colors of her day fill the scars in her hands so much so, that they overflow and gently color her fair wrists that whiten even more, when I would drape a scarf around my head, call that scarf a veil and call myself a bride and amidst this entanglement-- of expectation and imagination the wind whimpers |
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Writer's Statement: I am a sixteen year-old girl, who aspires to become a full-time writer one day!