Shobha and Other Pictures

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The woman of redeemed land
Whose blood — after fulfilled execution —
To the swallow of time’s
Forgotten, hurtful, surface’s burrow
In gorges filter like unexpressed sorrow.

The raped, re-raped meat of carrion
To trophy videos of regimented lust
Whose silenced guns and your certain fate
Pressed to that what you’re made of: dust.
Protest not the silence; lest you undermine what is free.

And your body comes to us in pictures,
No censorship can withhold the flow
Of thought that there was in you that thought
For weeks, perhaps, before you were caught.
For weeks you may have known that it was a matter of time.

Yes — in pictures sold by the very rapist:
Your undignified mangled nude, neck wriggled awry,
Black rectangles for tits and genitals, in a
Bid to make news a wee bit ethical. Pot for a silenced gun,
A hurrah for a journalist publishing, fighting.

And we’re showing Trojan Women
Somewhere in a homely theater where youth
In their smooching moods come sit and in the half lit reflection
Of the stage lights’ glow gently force
A member or excite a tit.



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