Nayika at the crawfish boil
ca. 2021 (modern century)
Along the butcher paper you’re spread. Licking your fingers. Cracking spines (dainty little things). Still, you know to shuck all their meat. Be as Southern and slack as he saw fit. And you kept spreading. Your smiles. Your rumor. Your circles of darlings, looped & braided your hair. Late skin atmosphere. Wet from the heat. New timbres and eves. You loved the hilly tongues of Carolinas. The ooze of Baton Rouge. You told jokes in shotgun kitchens. Basked in the Garden District. Cocktails under Columns. Humming yourself drunk: like a Louisiana
fairytale.
You debuted so well. Sent boys chirping. City bright & blushing. Blue ghosts circling your show and tell cottage. There you hung dead flowers. Fanned and soaked for
hours.
Bronzed legs, the perfect sundress. Oh Nayika! you even served Creole for his guests. Bottles and biscuits, king cake and juleps. But darling, what of it? You spread yourself
rich.
Held every court of his. Heard of hidden women. Swore you were different. Roaring
feline
laughter. You’ll plead with him after. For now, set down the flute. Panting to the
Bayou,
pride staggered, dress lifted. Face in the river. You’ll listen under pressure: God dammit! God eager! Takes lightning strikes to please. His wanton demands. Forget the title Nayika, chosen means damned. Undo the coronet braids, rein back what you can. All you’ve mistaken: Territory for home, throat for song, throws for
jewels.
Your type is the wretched. You won’t be defeated. You’ll reap what you choose. Faustian bargain. Spiders in your garden. Pulling your ribbons tighter. You say prized trumps beloved. So long as you’re coveted. You’ll weather the storm and all that good
brew:
The spines that crack. The bolts that bruise. Rumors coming back to you.
With permission by the author. Copyright © 2026 by Kiran Bath. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 25, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
About this Poem
“In trying to write more love poems I’ve ended up with a larger body of work that experiments with the ekphrastic form and autotheory, particularly with reference to the South Asian tradition of miniature paintings and its recurring depictions of the feminine heroine (Nayika in Sanskrit). The narrator’s relationship with the Nayika evidences the complications of prying her from societal gazes she has internalized and asks the question: How has she been painted—by the world, by her lover, by herself? Agency is as complex as heartbreak. The crowded language and insistent rhyme scheme speak to how these compact miniature paintings can capture entire inner worlds with great precision and richness.”
Kiran Bath is a writer and lawyer. She is the author of Instructions for Banno (Kelsey Street Press, 2024), winner of a 2025 Nautilus Silver Book Award in Poetry. Bath has received fellowships and support from Poets House, Vermont Studio Center, and Brooklyn Poets. A Kundiman Fellow, she lives in New York.
