Wednesday, November 11, 2015

A Poem by Bobbi Sinha-Morey


At sixteen I must leave my
childhood behind as I press
my hand in red powder and
put my handprint on the great
palace wall, wrapped in my red
and gold wedding sari in haste
for my husband's funeral pyre
who died only four days ago.
Married at the age of fourteen,
I treasured the nights we shared
at our balcony window feeding
each other sweet crumbly ladoos
and sticky jilebis, the look in his
eyes.  Now he is gone there is no
deluding the first furtive flame
and no escape.  I must face my
delicate skin burnt to the core,
my beauty erased.  Today I've no
will to look up at the sky, no feelings
for the staring heavens.  Allah does
not care for the young; let him die
in perdition for me and all the other
women he's witnessed perish in
flames.  There is no honor in letting
the innocent die, only the fear of
death you see in their eyes.  Soon
my heart will be a bed of fire;
I think of my head in my mother's
lap before I die.

Bobbi Sinha-Morey is a poet living in the peaceful city of Brookings, Oregon.  Her poetry can be seen in places such as Pirene's Fountain, Bellowing Ark, Plainsongs, The Path, Poeming Pigeons, and others.  Her books of poetry White Tail, The Glass Swan, and others are available at and  Her website is located at

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