The Blessed by Vandana Khanna

Back when we belonged
only to ourselves
but didn’t know it,

when dust coiled
around our ankles
with every step

we took away from
the front door, when
our breath still smelled

of raw milk, our ears hurt
with stories slipped
through the thin seam

of our mothers’ mouths,
tales that could char
tongues to a black soot.

Our mothers who were
too scared to swim or curse
or drive, bent us with their worry:

half a world away, brides
were lit like torches,
thrown from kitchen

windows for their dowries—
kerosene-soaked saris
flared like a brilliant sore

in the bleached sky.
Their words bit away at us
with their tea-stained teeth.

Even in our innocent,
American kitchens
The steel-tipped stove

stood bright, ominous—
made us shudder
like a broken wing.

We were blessed—
our fate consecrated
by an unlit match,

our minds, a pot boiling over
with the salt and steam
of all we couldn’t imagine.