Bad Karma Girl

A monsoon night, the moon curls

into the seventh house.

You’re yanked like a weed, wet and cold.

A howl fills you with dark water.

You burst, holler a lung full of hurt.

 

They said there is no cure for bad luck.

They said it is the will of the planets.

They had the time of your birth

inked on a dead scroll like a life-sentence.

 

You walk on shadows two steps behind the rest.

You bathe in moonlight, humming lullabies to the lilies. 

 

You unleash the cumin, color onions with saffron

cajole the brinjal to fornicate with the tamarind.

 

Talk of your wicked fry splatters across the bazaar

like mustard seed on roiled oil.

Behind the kitchen curtain, unseen like the soot–

you become a legend of no one. 


Published in Poetic Diversity 

ro7@mac.com © Ro Gunetilleke 2016