Home maker

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 beneath her feet
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 given her a fever
and her children have been put to rest
she tries to give herself a name
by scribbling madly on the pages
of a diary that she has conversations with,
the ghosts of the past
shed their clothes
this secret lover gives her a patient ear
with the breaking of dawn
a mad struggle awaits her
with the arrival of the milkman.