Poetry

Where We No Longer Have Right, Use or Easy Access

What’s this

cursed life,

We count

our blessings

By the tumblers

where we know not

or how much a tumbler means

We wash

conscience on rocks by river beds,

hang em on

clothesline with

dry-flake crow-shit

Check

the scent of the detergent

later in sun-burnt evenings

To assess

how much laundering

Your life is spiced with;

We spend weekends,

there are timetables

for these errands

To dust down

the cobwebs

hanging from

the ceiling

I wish the cobweb

lines are dyed

in colours of gold or rainbow –

We won’t be

so much sinning

as massacring spiders

Living in space where we no longer have right, use, or easy access

And yet

itemised to kill.

 

~Saranyan Bv

Bangalore, India

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