You cannot cut too close to the arteries
And face the bystander who, in the glass,
Pretends you are a
Less fornicated creature – that your brains, in you, clatter
And issue doubt-waves that too close you’ve cut.
He looks down, as you look down, the thin
Streams splat out – less redder than what you want, like
The fading, sweaty menses –
Trickles down your palm
Without harm. As you watch.
Once a woman – nay, a girl – a honeyed lass
Inside her thighs, arched them far wide open,
Parallel to her eyes. She said, “Look”, she said
A blade can give lust, too satisfied, a token of
Distemper. She smiled. She cut.
Face to face, with no more than the ticking of
An hourglass as our dread,
We made eye contact to the sunset
As, without words, we bled.
The bats flapped their wings. The colours went dim.
“Do you hear the infants cry, next door
For fresh drawn milk?” As each mother moans,
Backs turned on the parapet,
A nation of moaning, breast-feeding women
Became an abhor. Became a sound
Which only the lesser poet could hear. But,
With time on our side and the
Sun drawing to a close, we meditated on
Sounds, shapes; leakages of sorts.
So, we knew when it stopped. When the infants called it a day.