Original Poetry: “In Which the Author Regrets Coming Out to Her Parents”

When I came home, came out, came wrong.

And gave thanks to the night sky for how it covers me in composure. And called on love to save me. Called on every ancestor. And husked my frame for each ancient piece of magic left, summoning the original witch in me. And I found proof in the holy books. And the skies rolled back revealing my first kin, there to encourage me. And the moon howled louder than the wolves threatening to erupt through my skin. And I held this truth to my parents, reflecting so brightly. And they still would not recognize me.

Or they forgot that my love is an offering from the Gods, is clean water. Or coming out was never supposed to be easy, was it? Or I envision my parents’ heartbreak flooding all of India. Or I dream constantly of the enchantments that make home in a woman’s mouth. My dreams are never in sound. Or silence is not shame or an apology. Or how lucky I am to love. How lucky I am to be loved.

What else could I do But take back the hunt. Break it down into an algorithm I could master. But perform: false smile, false laugh, false daughter. But resort back to the old books, this time for new answers. Reach past the myths in Hinduism for the mechanics of coming out. I’m not looking for graceful, just the how and why. But bring to life and kill my imaginary children again and again. But become a ghost girl, or better yet, automated woman. Compartmentalize: my mouth here, my heart there. Robot girl does not need all parts of her body at the same place at the same time. But my mother brings up our family: a long line of mothers and daughters, a history being evoked against me. But I debunk it. I know the numbers; I know the legion still supporting me. But I burn the end of the thread and drag it through my body. Cauterize the wound that comes with giving away our last and greatest secrets. But I engineer myself a new form

one without the impulse to cry.