But talks of harmony flood your nose. / Harmony, harmony, harmony—you want it so bad, / and so you put words in our mouths
You have made ice out of my heart;/ we were once nothing–you brutalise me
rise, rise—now evening dies: sun-born in valleys with burning olive trees—where women like me plod one day at a time,
I am put away impulsively like the totems on a modern alter
And along with our bodies, the rage keeps on, / we chafe and bleed and clot and steer; / we go mad and nude
from my blood fangs, disarrayed cold / looting my sore body / that has done so much for me, while I ached
The burst of fragrant marigolds on the blanched porch of our old Calcutta home, free like sand, unbridled like the wind
We walk past the singing bells and our chambers, Blind to the perils beyond our walls.
Like wild leopard's skin, I spread out my hair The dark night uncurls with his roaring fleet; I pounce on his chest, bare foot, like Kali–
Inside her womb, my tunneling vision
Soundless on my flaking wall, you/ rest like a sniper in frigid fear,
It's June–the first day of Summer, You have never come home empty-handed, And I stand by our apartment door, Eye the lift as it totes between floors.
A fine good morning poem
Morning sun, and its endearing ardor swathes my spent body, I awake a ghost.
