The Woodpecker
God made me a woman
So my blood could flow
And nourish the famished trees
So the river becomes one
With what flushes out of me
That the fish can feed on
Zealously
God made me a woman
So my thighs can hang from the branches
That the birds pluck holes in
Food for the greed to lie down
Biting the flesh piece by piece
Till their beaks beam with
Gratification
God made me a woman
So I can feel the rain caressing my face
Dripping down a hungry soul
Soothing my lips
But slipping away to the river
Abandoning a terrified
Face
God made me a woman
So my fresh vomit can flow to the sea
Like a holy, profound ritual
Till my ribs are shown
Because how can I be a woman
If perfectionism isn’t painted all
Over?
God made me a woman
So even if a woodpecker crushes my bosoms
To pieces and dust
I will smile
Because how can I be a woman
If my mask of submission isn’t put on
At all times?
So I watch
And watch
Till I’m skull and bones
And the woodpecker’s beak beams with
Gratification.
The Hunger
Hunger can be many things
All wrapped up in a bundle
I abolish my desires
Through a thin, white paper
It has gotten so damp
I stare at it
Waiting for the pen to confess
Everything I hold in the mind
That is wrong for a woman
So I perform sublimation
While the walls hum in waves
And I ask it,
Are you mocking me
Or showing me the way?
I abolish my desires
Yet they float like jasmine
I swallow my hunger with eyes closed
Yet I am never satiated
Because hunger can be many things
All wrapped up in a bundle
I take the air and form hands
That can fondle my face
I take water and pour it
Over my hungry body
I take fire and let it
Brush my tired hair
I do it all and wait
A vulture on an empty land
Vincent would be proud
The iris, a beautiful specimen
Placidly watches and waits by the time teller
The hands scoop out the 7 and 8,
And melt the hours to minutes,
Like fingers playing an orphaned piano.
Callously are the colors plucked apart from the naive flowers.
Brushed fervently is the hair of the hairless cat, shivering timidly.
Sewn shush are the French curtains, now in gnarly designs, perplexing almost.
Painted delightfully are the dishes, like Vincent’s own canvas, a wonder to behold.
The iris, a beautiful specimen, watches the mind,
Disintegrate like an evaporating sea
“Is it playing the orphaned piano regularly?”
“Twice a day, as prescribed.”
“Then there shouldn’t be a problem. It should work out eventually.”
The iris and the mind sit pathetically in front,
Of the orphaned piano,
The keys lovingly bleed
The iris scatters an apologetic smile
Somewhere in the distance
Where time is relative
Hours melt to minutes.
The iris runs off to
Paint The Starry Night on the French Curtains
Vincent would be proud.
About the Author
Fathima Valliyangal is a poet from Kerala, India, whose work explores themes of emotional vulnerability, rebellion, and the intersections of identity, mental health, and womanhood. Her poetry has been described as raw, visceral, and deeply lyrical. A literature student with a passion for turning pain into art, she finds her voice in the spaces between silence and protest.
