She came barefoot,
ankle bells jingling like some ancient warning no one listens to.
Black sari dragging the motel carpet,
eyes rimmed in kohl,
cheeks streaked like she’d been crying in another dimension.
She didn’t look at me.
She looked through me.
Like I was the last wall before the ocean broke in.
Kali doesn’t knock.
She arrives mid-dream,
hand already on your throat, not to choke,
just to remind you where the pulse lives.
She asked for no light.
The flicker from the parking lot sign was enough,
painting her face in electric blue every time the “VACANCY” buzzed alive.
She tasted like copper and midnight rain.
Like every war my ancestors lost.
Her mouth moved over me like a prayer said in a language
I’d forgotten I knew.
When she laughed, it sounded like temple bells
dragged across asphalt.
When she wept, it was for everyone,
and it soaked into my skin until I couldn’t tell
whose grief I was carrying.
Kali doesn’t take.
She dismantles.
Bone by bone, thought by thought,
until you’re raw and clean and ready for the fire.
When it was over,
she left without closing the door.
Wind from the freeway rushed in,
smelling like diesel and freedom.
On the nightstand:
three marigolds,
a smear of blood,
and a matchbook with one left inside.
The cover read:
"Burn it all. Start again."
And I knew she didn’t just mean the motel.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
