Thursday, April 9, 2015

House wife


She complains in monosyllabic matters
by making music with
panting pots and clinging cutlery,
imposing self imprisonment
in an old ancestral home
she has been running after a mouse
for wifing a house.

She bared bleeding bones

to give babies
bickering in sealed spaces
and open streets
voicing her cross swords
she stutters and walks
on a nameless street
each day, every day.



She has never tasted the salt of the seas

those skyscrapers erected
on the skin of the earth
stare into her eyes
to salute her stilettos,
at the end of the day
when the flames and furnaces
have melted into her fever
She makes the final offering of herself
in a poem that will one day
give her a name, when the
the ghosts of the past
will shed their clothes.






2 comments:

Pooja Sharma Rao said...

Loved this Rinzu.
reminded me of Emily Dickinson, Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath.

rinzu rajan said...

Thanks a on Pooja :)