MYTH OF SAPPHO.

By Shruti Bhattacharya

Soul born in a human

is merely a

pharaoh of

the have nots

maggots and mammoths

of gigantic strangeness;

fiction sold in coins

poetic bent into pain.

Waxed into bizarre;

misruled in bazaar,

she was the concern of norms

gods and oppression

muted, it began

when freedom

and Salem

had no mouth

and faith was kingdom

staunched and crude

rude was prude

boyhood was changed

and furry;

it was arson

warm and sun

flame and brown

Sappho;

She was the myth

Clustered around her

was men and voices

asking the mode

of her coy

a prey;

for some

a meat;

for numb

a clone;

for curious

a void;

for voice

she was the subject

coiled into object.

Who was she?

Did she know?

Who did?

Who spoke?

What was true?

Did anyone know?

Mute;

she never asked

neither she answered

lax like doll

she was stoned into a myth

bosom full of chest

or a beard or groin

home of breast

or choice of fine

nothing

nothing was left

not a single title

neither any honor

left in her shrine

shunned to earth;

she was a nameless question

of hollow cavity

she was better to be on a tree

lived would be she

if she were a bird

light and feather

not on scallions of bane

ratio of virgin or love

pure for her nature

she would be all

and beyond

not a coin flipped

in black or white

she would be a myth

loved and not vague.

By Shruti Bhattacharya