[Brown]
by Mrityunjay
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1:
The Skin as a Moon
divinity bleeds through my skin, and I am broken only in two never parts
My eyes are darkened moons beneath thickets of overarching
trees—their brittle fingers aching for silver stars
my sister tells me I am too dark
the burnt husk of a sunken moon
[brown]
as dirt under her foot,
[brown]
as soil under the stars
2:
The Skin is a Platter
I am full of verses, and housed in a body of comments from strangers,
I am incomplete with them as I am without
my body is the
colour
of the burnt bottom of a copper pot on
a turned-low gas stove—
The stove burns—my own skin withers into grains of a once bright flame
when I am pasted on with
whitening
creams and face masks
Can something so meaningless cure the nature of a skin that refuses change?
3:
The Skin Without a Home
My colour is my clothing, but how to wear it proud when it is so abhorred?
A skin that refuses change
I am
bottled with stars they are
[brown]
as a hollow tree without an
ounce of blood
Does the tree weep when it is told to peel off its skin
and
replace it with something else?
4:
The Skin is Brown
A bowl of comments on the hollows of my cheek are fruits to pluck
They feed the insecurity a heart can call its home
[brown]
puppets dance under my skin swim beneath thistly words
morsels of my skin wither and wallow
in a sea—drowning; sinking; aching
when I am within
sight of my sister
Opinion: you’re uncivilised for
you are brown (read as, my sister believes
herself to be white for she’s made of the moon)
Opinion: you’re a barbarian that bounds
about, a monkey without
sense of anything
accustomed smile
my eyes are to the crinkle of a when I am to hide
own instead
my skin
is called a scar because it is supposed to be
mended
it is to
change
bound by a requirement to treat it—
heal it—cure it of its condition
get better
But what if I don’t want to get better after all?
5:
The Skin as Metal
I am most indestructible when I am without any remarks
I am a painting on the tongue of a canvas, but only there are no artists
on sight—I need to make my fingers my brush and my skin the paint, and make it
My skin is called a scar fire-sharpened words on my sister’s tongue
Not a morsel of guilt in her
heart
my skin becomes thick
gnarled like bent
metal
under heat
melts
A wound on the inside of my marred cheek forfends me
from speaking
but what can I say?
There are
parts
of me
that resist change
I only hope my skin is one of them
6:
The Skin Aged Six
Does love (read as, comments made with love) age well?
Six
and standing before the gas stove
I am told that I am
[brown]
because I am in the kitchen too long
7:
The Skin Believes No One, Not Even Me
Demons (read as, people) are superstitious
They think you’ll believe anything they say
Standing before the gas stove
I am used to the feel of
heat
on my skin when I am touched with concern
darker
it seems my skin gets
every time someone new visits—or
perhaps they’ve forgotten of my
color
the moment they leave
I am handed recipes to
face masks (read as, fix my face) when they leave
I am told it will
get better
as if
I was diagnosed with a terminal illness
there is rain under my eyes
and—
I want to say the moons are dark because I am
but I don’t
8:
The Skin is a Crematorium
Is there a coffin for the alive? A crematorium for the wishing?
dark
The moons are because I am
they are misted with rain that splashes on the windows
of my eyes
wipers still as bodies in coffin
My skin was born with a
Eulogy
Like an essay of predictions that never happen
and
I am erasing every word on it
9:
The Skin is an Advice (A Warning) to Keep Away From You
There are advices for everything to never do
But what for for the things to do?
In any case, I feel I am more of a warning for so many things
Smiles
—stretch like a slit—yellow teeth like pencils—and I am compelled to flinch—
I don’t
Asked why my sister’s skin is
lighter
I shrug;
How would I know the makings of my skin at six?
Her skin is the moon
[Brown]
mine is the darkened clouds underneath her
Moons disappear clouds never do
Advice Column: It’s because your mother
didn’t drink enough saffron milk
when she was pregnant
Advice Column: it’s because your mother
is corrupt and never prayed
while pregnant
I am told things I can never change
I am offered advices I will never heed
10:
The Skin is a Hollow Tree under a Black Moon
Angels on my tongue sing; their eyes a black moon, lips a hollow tree
Their wings incinerate like organs in the inventory
I am told things I can never change
and
the trees slip like paste on skin
white
like face masks on
[Brown]
tree barks
and
twisted
trunks
trinkets of milk slip
between
breasts
turmeric drawn on my wet face like
I am to be dressed for a wedding
a love arranged
between
wooden walls
and
open coffins
11:
The Skin is a Sinner
Leaving a love feels as much a sin as the ones in a small hard bound book
Is there a place for the sinner? Apart from an aching hell?
For a sinner with no knees to carry him there?
There is some truth to that
the wedding
marks
the ruin
of the home I’d built with my parents love
an end
of responsibility—a departure from familiarity
a choice
of leaving only given with terms and conditions
attached
Terms and Conditions: you deserve
an ugly partner, a demanding family, a loveless marriage
and you must accept that
Terms and Conditions: you must
anyone we choose if you ever want to leave—making a decision
is far behind your comprehension
my
departure
from home
marks
the end
of any love they’d harboured in
their hearts
a star sinking into the sea
a moon rising up
[Brown]
A wet cloth wipes off the mixture
of the turmeric and lemon juice
on my starved skin
scarlet
and
raw
as a blister on the foot
in winter
a yellow-stain
clings to my skin
tints me in gold
dots the copper on my skin in light freckles of
[Brown]
dots the copper on my skin in light freckles of brown
how does the turmeric feel when it is compared to gold and then the sun?
12:
The Skin is God
A sun blinks in my eye, a moon drowns in the brown
Arms up, legs thrashing; water housed in a building of ice
Fire to warm my skin, angels to sing, bodies to burn
There is a consecrated temple in my skin that I pray to in my sleep
O, to feel that joy of
being compared to
the sanctity of the sun
Of the
blunt edge of the star
Of his
lips of color on threads
Of skin
[Brown]
I am sacred born from the neck of an angel
only to be revered as a God
God
a wet cloth slung around my shoulder
hallowed
more than the palm of their hands
than the scar of their souls
numinous only for existing
and
none else
Mrityunjay is a queer, trans, disabled writer of color. Mrityunjay's work has been published or is forthcoming in Michigan Quarterly Review, Denver Quarterly, The Indianapolis Review, and Fourteen Hills. He’s a Tin House scholar and a Brooklyn Poets fellow. He's been awarded scholarships by Sundance Institute, The Common, Frontier Poetry, Black Lawrence Press, and elsewhere. He was a semi-finalist for the Copper Canyon Press Publishing Fellowship. He has worked as a guest editor, a reader, and an intern at various literary journals. He’s an editor for ANMLY magazine, and a reader for Split/Lip Press, Harvard Review, and The Masters Review.