By-Pallavi Priyamvada


Hands of a lover,

hits of a husband.

My words aren’t pretty,

but they don’t mean

to offend.

The tainted smile

of the trifling Don Juan,

how it slid


underneath my blouse.

“Your sari is torn”,

he showed.

It was.

That’s why I left my house!

I fetched water.

He did not blink.

My throat caught fire,

it was alcohol,

mixed with zinc.

The glass crashed

quietly on the floor.

Spared my leg,

spirited my jungle.

“It wouldn’t hurt”,

he said.

In the board game room,

in 2002, so said my uncle.

His fingers cornered

my waistline.

Oh I remember

the desperate delicate force!

Like a beautiful boy

in a brothel.

Rocking, without saddle,

on a wild horse.

“Seduced by suicide?


It’s all in your head.”

The skyline

could have resisted,

but it moaned instead.

My thighs were tied,

when he burnt my sheets.

I was pinned to bed,

as we set sail

to the forgotten waters

of tormented ships.

As I reach the shore,

my body is sore;

my head’s a mess,

the soul little less.

But committed

to no show,

I play on

the radio,


lick on

the sweet scoop

of loneliness.



This poem has been published in the book 'The Last Flower Of Spring'. Buy the paperback copy on Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/y9sydnxn

1 comment

  • The imagery reminds me of The Dark Holds No Terrors by Shashi Deshpande. Excellently worded.


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