Don’t tell me when you come back to me
Frost-bitten, smitten with the wind-drift,
Bespattered with mud, and slain,
That I did’nt wait for you long enough.
My ashes, kept intact,
The morsels of my deepest elements,
The fluid warmth
Of the deep, dark trenches
Of my being–have frozen, nude and barren,
In the waiting.
Don’t tell me that I lie and exaggerate
When I say you clenched and unclenched,
As I gagged and loosened my mouth
On you, with myths and high-flying tales
Of love, and fortitude.
You have never known when waiting
Becomes a crashing glass,
A staring into space, a beautiful scar.
My nights grow in the crumbling brick walls
The chimney smoke blowing,
Dark patches in the ashen sky.
Layer upon layer, the unopened boxes
Of my taut, mellowed wants,
The pastel shades worn, bust to waist,
Waist to hip, hip to thighs and ankles
Looked at, devoured, turned away,
Stark dead, grinning,
With banana skins and muggy air.
Don’t tell me you didn’t find me
Amid the thin film of sunlight
In the dark, arid room.
I waited, customarily,
Glittering, darkening in my prayers.
Copyright: Lopa Banerjee. February 1, 2015
Note: A humble dedication to the unwavering, undying spirits of women who bear the onslaught of patriarchy, every single day, unfailingly.