I

Though her lovers circulate like kerosene

Orbiting around an exhausted burner–

Though, her kiss in the mourning

Is understood, by him, as a wedding at night,

Where her exposed midriff waltzes for air,

Where funeral grounds latch on to her petticoat,

When his hands exhume a police van:

II

The time is unimportant.

Yasmin, 14, returns from the centre of the earth.

To Dinajpur. To Home.

She is help.

For other people.

She get’s on the wrong bus.

Get’s off.

The patrol is suave, and rolls in.

They offer her a lift home.

Come daylight, her corpse will decorate

The mind of her city.

There are journalists.

The tourists stop booking trips.

Ramshagar dries up.

There is a gherao on the thana.

7 dead.

Acquiescence.

The gavel.

3 convicted.

3 policemen buying lifetimes of silence.

III

But she wants to fix him:

the terror she knows.

Not the shiv to the gut.

Not the storefront glass perjuring itself.

Not the pickpocket swallowed by the mob.

That,

Unfalsifiable,

Precluding touch,

Belief:

The I owe him

Diving hypothermic–

Watching, achol in cavort,

Sidewalks growing meek.

And It doesn’t feel like work, anymore, she says,

It’s feels ok.

Photo: Pounopunik

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s