Monday, January 7, 2013


Tissue thin tilling of tidings
bought for a few rupees
stories travel against the speed of light
reaching to us
with the morning tea
burning our tongues,
anger stirred with a steel spoon
dissects the people who have been named
after tales, most sewn with a tailor's precision.

We become messengers
when we point our fingers
for the culprits sparing
the victim's vowels
most being women
who have burnt like candles
to keep the flame alive.

After a few days
it palls the carcass
of a baby diaper or sanitary pad
disposing it into the corner dustbin
one that reposes
in the backyard of the house
or is carried away
as a dead body
awaiting cremation.

First published in the Copperfield Review here.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Beautiful! Really enjoyed this clever poem on a common yet powerful subject.