i wear a mask stitched with the knotted fiber of

olive-colored pods brimming with umber seeds.

it weighs down my battered shoulders and sparks shame

into bruising skin but the necessity of the beautiful

lie is what shoves the bitter seeds to pinch tightly

at the corner of my mouth and burn my insides as i dash

to catch the impatient school bus- even as my lips purse

and i flutter weary eyes in exhaustion of this wicked dance

i know that the cardamom is the enemy of my enemy. and it

gloats at this- holds my pride in black iron chains as i

languish in its promised protection in this pernicious prison.

it weaves into my mind tear-stained memories of girls tilting

bodies away and scrunching up their noses as they inhale

through their mouths. it shows me the slow-motion rewinding 

of boys turning minutely and whispering to their classmates.

i see grinning faces in flashing radio static like panning

camera frames as a fake heave catches my ears and the

failed stifling of hysterical giggles burn at pierced ears.

i wince as stupid-me in the black-and-white memory covers her

mouth- breath tainted with the aromatic chili curry that mother

cooked at 5:00 AM and served blazing hot- and runs into the

bathroom to wash her reddened throat fifteen times in hopes

that cool water will wash away the spices and the sins.

and as the little girl cries i cry as well- and my tears are

bitter-burning against the cloth of the cardamom mask. for i

have read the sequel to this shakespearean tragedy- i know

that after this day the girl will keep a straw-stained jar

of seeds in her backpack- she will eat them after breakfast

and lunch and dinner in solemn scorn and broken hope in

exhaustion like a weary drug addict- she will pledge herself

to hiding the smell of Indian tiffin with neutral spice- she

will allow herself to be bound to a cage made by the knotted

fiber of olive-colored pods brimming with umber seeds-

and she will never forget to eat the cardamom.