Make your eyelashes stand on end — not like thorns, nor like spiked concertina wires, not like the scythe, nor like rope you lowered so Madhav could escape while your father banged on your door.

Blink like cattle, not like fairy lights, not like tempests curling within, nor like avalanche you’re getting crushed under, nor like your mother and sisters heaving around you.

Read it in Peatsmoke Journal