Draupadi

On lazy summer afternoons when the tall casuarinas
Haunt my vacant daydreams, the ancient mango tree
In the yard sits brooding at the end of the dream,
Slowly spreading its boughs, like a spider’s gossamer
Into the lost hours of time. How easy it is to ignore the tree
And continue with my dream! But not today! Why is it,
That today, the stillness of its leaves scream of a woman
Who had once asked for blood to wash her grief? Why is it,
That today, I see that woman soaking her black density in
Streams of red, and her eyes humming in happiness like
Beloveds do at the sight of roses? Why is it, that today,
The look in her eyes makes me imagine, the lonely
Meanderings of the roots, coiled and twisted in the deep
Darkness… desperately grappling with the earth, so that
The boughs above could bear some fruit, and crowd
It for a season, for a sacrament?


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