HEARD / WORD | August 11, 2020

This week, Megha Sood reads “Even My Grief Should Be Productive” - a poem woven around the blind patriarchal rules imposed on women and girls for generations.

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Even My Grief Should Be Productive

By Megha Sood

Don't let the aroma leave the pickle jar
Keep the lid tight
my granny used to say--
Somethings are better left unspoken.
Part of your tradition
scream but not too loud.
Let the grief resonate with the insides of your skin.

We are picked and chosen precariously
through the callous thick fingers
Make sure they are not rotten...not stained enough
the flavor doesn't come through well.
I choose my memories
precariously -- not the rotten ones
the shuddering truth;
It should not shatter the patriarchy.

Let the anger morph.
Let it churn into the vermilion shade
the symbol of pride and ownership:
use your pain wisely
let them own you well

I used those broken whispers as a guide
to pluck the radishes out from the broken mud
of vegetable garden---
moistened and broken by the summer rains
crumbled in pieces
but always rich in bounty

With bended knee
scraping my soft skin. I lowered myself whitened
by the heat of the summer sun
sweat and tears inseparable.
A perfect concoction of pain.

A wicker basket filled to the brim
by the end of the day with the fruit of my labor
Grief pulled out from the dearth of acceptance.
A menagerie of suffocated desires
laid bare for your eyes.
A lesson I have learned through the years
Even my grief should be productive.