Extraction

Photo: Lorna Sim

Of what must I speak?

Of what can I speak?

What of my experience

must I extract as words?

Meaning mines my Body—

its winking word-nuggets lure.

In its avaricious aftermath

my Body splays in bloodied wounding.

The Spoken despises Body’s unspeakable secrets

which elude in meaningless dances

despite ten thousand daily violations.

If there is freedom, is it not unspoken?

Does it not bloom in scarred lands like the rattlepod,

rattling with rhythms of ancient dances?[1]

Why must I speak when I can rattle?

Why must I mean when I can dance?

-Padma Menon

[1] The rattlepod is a native Australian plant some species of which grow in harsh conditions including in abandoned mining lands. Its name comes from the seeds inside their pods which rattle.