[dVerse] October 27 - The Suggestion Box Has No Opening

At the annual celebration of Respect,
the family unveils a suggestion box.

It has no opening.
We applaud the workmanship.

An uncle explains
that disagreement is a Western disease.
The ceiling fan asks why
and is switched off for insolence.

The eldest man eats first.
The youngest woman serves everyone.

This, apparently, is not a hierarchy.
It is heritage,
and heritage cannot be questioned
while the dal is hot.

I raise my hand.

Everyone looks alarmed.
An aunt whispers: sit down.

I haven't stood up. But.
Already I have broken a tradition.

"Just one question," I say.
"If respect is mutual,
why does it have
only one direction of travel?"

The uncle says our ancestors
must be turning in their graves.

I look at their portraits,
perched above the kitchen stove,
their glass faces
spotted with the oil
of a thousand invisible dinners.

Perhaps they are turning.
Perhaps they would like
to face the sink for once.

Nobody laughs.

The uncle declares
that humour is the death of civilisation.

This is unfortunate,
because someone has just asked me
to make him another cup of tea.

I make it.
I do not add sugar.

It is a small rebellion.
I am informed
it has ruined the family.

The ceiling fan resumes
its revolutions
without permission.

~ Oizys.

Written for dVerse Poetics Tuesday: The Art of Irreverence, hosted by Punam on October 27, 2026. The prompt asked us to write an irreverent poem questioning authority, convention, or the supposedly sacred, without confusing irreverence with cruelty. This is about respect. Or its remarkably selective distribution.

[dVerse] October 26 - A Woman Drinks the Hunter's Moon

On the terrace, the Hunter's Moon rises behind the neighbour's water tank. It is orange at first, then red at the edges, like a fruit beginning to spoil. I watch its colour change and think of all the stains a woman is expected to remove before anyone notices. The turmeric on her fingers. The blood on her clothes. The evidence of having possessed a body at all.

I fill a steel tumbler at the tap. The moon settles on the water without asking permission. I lift it carefully. For years, I have been told what not to put in my mouth: too much food, the wrong words, an answer to a man older than me. Nobody thought to forbid the sky. I drink. The moon breaks against my teeth, travels down my throat in cold mouthfuls of ordinary water. A little spills onto my nightdress. Somewhere below, a dog barks at the real thing, still hanging intact above the rooftops.

I go inside with an empty glass. Ma asks whether I have eaten. "Yes," I say, and do not elaborate.

after the monsoon

ants carry a moth's torn wing

through fallen petals

~ Oizys.

Written for dVerse Haibun Monday: Hunter's Moon/Halloween, hosted by Frank J. Tassone on October 26, 2026. The prompt asked for a haibun referencing Halloween or the Hunter's Moon, with prose and a complementary seasonal haiku. I chose the moon. It looked edible. I have been hungry.