#100 bells

[lifeinpoetry]

I locked the door. I did not die. I did not die. I shaved my head. Until the horns I knew were there were visible.

— Tarfia Faizullah, from “100 Bells,” Registers of Illuminated Villages

[lifeinpoetry]

I slithered. Glass beneath my feet. I locked the door. I did not die. I shaved my head. Until the horns I knew were there were visible. Until the doorknob went silent.

Tarfia Faizullah, from “100 Bells” published in Poetry

[sol-psych]

My sister died. He raped me. They beat me. I fell to the floor. I didn’t. I knew children, their smallness. Her corpse. My fingernails. The softness of my belly, how it could double over. It was puckered, like children, ugly when they cry. My sister died and was revived. Her brain burst into blood. Father was driving. He fell asleep. They beat me. I didn’t flinch. I did. It was the only dance I knew. It was the kathak. My ankles sang with 100 bells. The stranger raped me on the fitted sheet. I didn’t scream. I did not know better. I knew better. I did not live. My father said, I will go to jail tonight because I will kill you. I said, She died. It was the kathakali. Only men were allowed to dance it. I threw a chair at my mother. I ran from her. The kitchen. The flyswatter was a whip. The flyswatter was a flyswatter. I was thrown into a fire ant bed. I wanted to be a man. It was summer in Texas and dry. I burned. It was a snake dance. He said, Now I’ve seen a Muslim girl naked. I held him to my chest. I held her because I didn’t know it would be the last time. I threw no punches. I threw a glass box into a wall. Somebody is always singing. Songs were not allowed. Mother said, Dance and the bells will sing with you. I slithered. Glass beneath my feet. I locked the door. I did not die. I shaved my head. Until the horns I knew were there were visible. Until the doorknob went silent.

100 bells, TARFIA FAIZULLAH

[anestforpoetry]

My sister died. He raped me. They beat me. I fell to the floor. I didn’t. I knew children, their smallness. Her corpse. My fingernails. The softness of my belly, how it could double over. It was puckered, like children, ugly when they cry. My sister died and was revived. Her brain burst into blood. Father was driving. He fell asleep. They beat me. I didn’t flinch. I did. It was the only dance I knew. It was the kathak. My ankles sang with 100 bells. The stranger raped me on the fitted sheet. I didn’t scream. I did not know better. I knew better. I did not live. My father said, I will go to jail tonight because I will kill you. I said, She died. It was the kathakali. Only men were allowed to dance it. I threw a chair at my mother. I ran from her. The kitchen. The flyswatter was a whip. The flyswatter was a flyswatter. I was thrown into a fire ant bed. I wanted to be a man. It was summer in Texas and dry. I burned. It was a snake dance. He said, Now I’ve seen a Muslim girl naked. I held him to my chest. I held her because I didn’t know it would be the last time. I threw no punches. I threw a glass box into a wall. Somebody is always singing. Songs were not allowed. Mother said, Dance and the bells will sing with you. I slithered. Glass beneath my feet. I locked the door. I did not die. I shaved my head. Until the horns I knew were there were visible. Until the doorknob went silent.

“100 Bells”, Tarfia Faizullah