Roshan Koirala

How do you pour your blankness

on a blank sheet? How do you smear its slatted face

with crinkly soreness goring in deep, lower navel pulverized

with that libidinal punch, aah, aah, aah

ruthless lunge of a cheetah

when he comes inside gushing terror announced

while you shudder from end to end, how?

But it’s only a couple of minutes (isn’t it?) a day or night

or whatever fucking bit of fucked up moment

happens to be your proprietary service time that you bide

as a bride till you are all but dried.

Just a couple of minutes it is, indeed, of murder.

Yup, mere minutes, my mother, and he will let me be.

Live another day, I know.

But shouldn’t he ask me if it’s alright? That my fright

shouldn’t be his night of love. Shouldn’t he want a caress too

if not caress me? Shouldn’t he have been told? It can’t

be ignored. Shouldn’t he have been told of all that he shouldn’t?

Couldn’t that have been known?

Mother! Where are the fathers? Tell them of the murders, your daughter

can’t continue this cycle of stillbirths.

rosskoirala@gmail.com