Yagnaseni

Born of the heart of ritual fire,
cradled by the tongues of fire,
revered as a blaze of unbearable beauty,
doted by her husbands
until bartered like an animal
for a game of dice,
dragged into the royal hall
by the locks of her hair,
the men present there –
old and young,
yearned
for a glimpse of that body.
 
Some held their hands down,
some clenched their fists in shame,
some swallowed the hunger.
The rage of her dearest
shuddered
the domains of gods.
He threw his mace
at the abductor
narrowly missing him.
The hundred brothers
and their cohorts
laughed
at the spectacle.
Layer after layer,
they rushed the disrobing
for the final reveal.
Every unspooling thread
held the suspense
of the profane.
 
She didn't pray for a saviour,
She didn’t wait for a miracle,
she didn't need a god.
She closed her eyes tightly
and fell inward
into the hearth of her first fire.
She unlocked
her female splendor.
That was not the kind of splendor
they coveted.
When the splendor
broke free,
it blinded their eyes
and charred the skin
that touched her.
 
She shone
like a thousand brilliant suns.
 
The spectacle
shattered
every shard,
every weapon,
every idol
in the realm.
 
She
was losing form –
losing parts of her
with every flicker.
 
Her dearest
got up from the cold floor,
like a mountain of breath and fury,
he moved toward her,
lifted her off the ground,
as her body gave way.
She curled in his embrace
like an infant.
 
Soothing
each fracture,
each unseen wound,
he carried her
into the sacred refuge
of the icy mountains.
 
When she woke up
at dusk
on the third day,
he smiled at her
and held her hand tighter.
Exhaustion
blurred the edges of reality
but her mind
survived
the annihilation.
 
She pulled him close
and murmured to him
about a dream
where she danced
with the fireflies
and battled
the blazing comets
in the sky.