The Song of Despair


Women who’re hard to write about 

limp their way to márquez’s desk,

with broken legs and strings for hands, 

only to be discarded like expired whole wheat multigrain bread.

 

They are scratched upon torn page of diaries from 1947

that reek of martyred blood and memories of homeless nomads

who pay their homage through letting stories from the time

they went swimming in Jalandhar’s largest pond,

and from the day they scarred their tongues with

the hottest Raan in Lahore peek through every succinct exchange of

word they have while searching for a roof again,

and again, and again.

 

Women who’re hard to write about 

sometimes find themselves between the lines of Neruda’s torn poems;

somewhere, amidst his twenty love poems, there they breathe,

in the song of despair.

 

Their chapped and tattoed lips are painted with clear glycerine;

their crow’s feet wear smeared kohl like war paint; 

and when they meet eyes that of poets, 

they are more of hollow black holes and moss,

and less of ebony wood that smells of a restless cup of

brewing robusta which tastes of pretzels dipped in maple syrup.

 

I’ve heard of poets who’ve spent the last of their breaths,

looking for metaphors in their plastic lips and aged eyes

like an orphan looks for his mother’s milk- in vain.

 

Women who’re hard to write about

paint their bodies with red wine on broken beds in motels, 

and burn their oesophagi with all strength whiskey,

in hopes of burying agony at the pit of their stomachs,

 

Which are the deathbeds of a thousand poets’ diluted metaphors,

who dared name their skin, ‘skin’, and not 

the burgundy coloured saree of their mother

who wears stars in her hair and words on her tongue

that feel of shrapnels thrown around like confetti 

that tastes of rainbows, and dips her palms 

in the barren lands of her green lush collarbones

and dares call herself beau-ti-ful, instead of waiting for her sons

to write her petty poems about her sliding youth.

 

Because,

you see,

their mother, happens to be one of

the women who’re hard to write about,

as well.


 

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