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Originally published on https://aakritikuntal.wordpress.com In these fingers outstretched like fields ploughed plugged into variable tones of mehendi green bangles, blades of grass overlap into a d.i s cor dant harmony That's the color they wed to in the old village by the banks In these finger scales that grow like scallops I inherit a thousand destinies that never became The robbed joy of formation of curvature cut into flatness, beaten by a rolling pin into a dimming delay A monotony with five hundred faces At the age of 40 the women in my neighborhood develop a strange sickness Their eyes, kale and algae dotted wells, swirling echoes Strawberries like cleaved hearts Hanging ever so loosely on unearthed lips, reminiscent of a certain wholeness At the age of 40 the women in my country tend to drop like sticks, all at once, Their bodies talking of a suffocation from too many walls and too many dreams None their own And I wonder why no one talks about it Why no one s ee s And then I think of the nature of sickness how when it occurs in prevalence We stop noticing the gaps that have long been staring at Us.
Published by Aakriti Kuntal
Written by Aakriti Kuntal
7 years ago 
