100 Bells

My sister died. He raped me. They beat me. I fell

to the floor. I didn’t. I knew children,

their smallness. Her corpse. My fingernails.

The softness of my belly, how it could

double over. It was puckered, like children,

ugly when they cry. My sister died

and was revived. Her brain burst

into blood. Father was driving. He fell

asleep. They beat me. I didn’t flinch. I did.

It was the only dance I knew.

It was the kathak. My ankles sang

with 100 bells. The stranger

raped me on the fitted sheet.

I didn’t scream. I did not know

better. I knew better. I did not

live. My father said, I will go to jail

tonight because I will kill you. I said,

She died. It was the kathakali. Only men

were allowed to dance it. I threw

a chair at my mother. I ran from her.

The kitchen. The flyswatter was

a whip. The flyswatter was a flyswatter.

I was thrown into a fire ant bed. I wanted to be

a man. It was summer in Texas and dry.

I burned. It was a snake dance.

He said, Now I’ve seen a Muslim girl

naked. I held him to my chest. I held her

because I didn’t know it would be

the last time. I threw no

punches. I threw a glass box into a wall.

Somebody is always singing. Songs

were not allowed. Mother said,

Dance and the bells will sing with you.

I slithered. Glass beneath my feet. I

locked the door. I did not

die. I shaved my head. Until the horns

I knew were there were visible.

Until the doorknob went silent.