“& so here she trusts” by Sneha Dhandapani

my mother lays strewn across marbled floor

& rose petals protrude from a needle rupturing the skin of her thumb

in chicago she trembles asking god why this golden america failed her

while violets bud from bruises on umber skin

& my mother asks god

how she became a child when a ring slipped onto her finger

if this is postmaturity or a funeral

if god’s flowers are her welcome to this marbled earth

or her ticket to heaven. trust god. trust god.

she begs the world to stop, stop, stop.

but the most grace a woman can receive

is a pause.

so my mother prays to the ceiling light.

because god watches her from the brightness the

same way she taught me–god sits where you can see him.

pray up, god is above you.

the same god who waters the flowers when my mother cannot

he lulls the petals each night, sings berceuses not to a fading woman

but to a flower garden–like my mother taught me:

god nurtures our greatest achievements.

strewn across the marbled floor, a flower garden grows

& my mother bears this beauty:

her body the soil, prayers the water, god the sunlight

this is her funeral. trust god. trust god. trust god.

my father bangs against the wooden door.

my mother is a product of misery never

learning its name.

i hear them scream, metal rings clashing against marble.

i trust god. i trust god. i trust god. i trust god.

Sneha Dhandapani is a first-year student in LSA studying Cognitive Science, Philosophy, and creative writing with hopes to pursue a career in law. She loves guessing games, writing fiction, and doesn't go anywhere without her airpods.