Poetry Month

I've been leafing through my poetry books this month and re-fell in love with Black Candle by Chitra Divakaruni.

This is one of them:

The Makers of Chili Paste

The old fort on the hill
is now a chili factory
and in it, we
the women,
saris tied over nose and mouth
to keep out the burning

On the bare brown ground
the chilies are fierce hills
pushing into
the sky's blue. Their scarlet
sears out sleep.
We pound them into powder
red-acrid as the mark
on our foreheads.

All day the great wood pestles
rise and fall,
rise and fall,
our heartbeat. Red
spurts into air, flecks our arms
like grains of dry blood.
The color will never
leave our skins.

We are not like the others
in the village below,
glancing bright black
at men
when they go to the well for water.

Our red hands
burn like lanterns
through our solitary nights.
We will never
lie breathless
under the weight of thrusting men,
birth bloody children.

We are the makers of chili paste.
Through our fingers
the mustard oil seeps
a heavy, melted gold. In it
chili flecks swirl and drown.
We mix in secret spices,
magic herbs,
seal it in glowing jars
to send throughout the land.

All who taste our chilies
must dream of us,
women with eyes like rubies,
hair like meteor showers.
In their sleep forever
our breath will blaze
like hills of chilies
against a falling sun.