I remember you now as a beauty
I cannot place by name -
Muslim, Hindu or Sephardic in faith,
with henna peacock stained on your body,
placed boldly among scrolls
of flower and vine, branching
its loud voice
over ten days of your skin.
I first saw it while you stood
Trembling and naked
in the gym's showers. Then
you were a stranger -
far from your birthing.
The talisman of crushed leaves
decorating your body,
meant to protect vulnerability
through transition.
In classrooms we called you Judy.
In hallways we taunted look and smell,
calling you anything but
your rightful name, given you
under the Middle Eastern sun.
These years later I am handed
a clue to your mystery -
the thing that made us all cringe
with doubt - while reading a book
on the ancient body art of Mehndi.
Unsuspecting on the pages
somewhere between caption
and photograph of hand is hidden
the peacock, listed as a symbol
of the unseen divine.
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