Lacrimosa, 2004
//There is a new star in the eastern sky tonight, spilling fourteen prongs of light. I feel the first flutter in my belly.
//The last time I stood by the sea, the waves snaked in and swept my shoes away in one quick lick of tide. I walked home barefoot over rocks that cut into the pads of my feet. I muddied the marram grass with ruby footprints.
//On the counter, an expectant rectangle of white slowly displays two lines of red. They deepen in hue and shimmer like festive candy canes. Positive.
//My grandmother’s ghost visits at dawn. She whispers that what is meant for me will always be mine.
//When I cradle my bump, it is the convex shape of a papaya half, firm and oblong, a safe outer shell. I dream of faithful spirits bringing precious gifts, of shooting stars streaked with gold.
//Mistletoe, a brand-new tree, baubles and lights, and a nativity diorama made of clay. I slip into restful sleep thinking of the Virgin and her precious child, and see the silhouette of a magpie moth in the deepest cavern of my body.
//A raven in the magnolia tree caws all day long. Feathers strewn on the moss rustle like an unkind omen.
//Christmas night. My shoe is a silent lake of blood. Muffled cries rumble in the glass vault of a cold ward. How swiftly the womb wilts from a viable cocoon to an empty husk. Rain lashes the panes with unparalleled fury. On the TV screen, images flash of a wall of water pummelling a faraway shore. Banda Aceh buckles under an incensed ocean.
//There is no gentle way to be told of your loss. Tectonic plates open like gashes.
//Diffused voices in the dark whisper of the boon of youth, the certainty of bearing fruit again. I don’t want platitudes. All I crave is an ounce of compassion.
//A jade figurine of the Madonna watches from a shelf on the wall. Calla lilies droop over my IV-numbed arms.
//The night light glows above the nurses’ station in a ring of amber blue. Through the speakers comes the faint strain of Holy Night. The stars are brightly shining. I look outside into the predawn sky. What they say of the stars is true.
Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad is an Indian-Australian artist, poet, and improv pianist. She lives and works on the traditional lands of the Eora Nation in Sydney.