By Gopikrishnan Kottoor
Three days back I saw her scampering,
her cotton egg pressed with all her hands
to her breast-still running,
perhaps for a place to hide;
looking for a place to give birth to her child.
I saw her run to safety under the carpet
at the other end. Such instinct..
the egg, pearl white,
shining through the dark brown embrace.
To gift it life was all that mattered now.
Today, I pulled the chair a little closer
to the laptop, and something stirred on the floor.
It was a mother trying to run,
the egg upon her breast..
shredded,
herded by fiery brown ants,
tearing it to pieces.
The egg slipped,
like a ripped moon caught on a thorn tree,
and the brown sky shook like a leaf in the breeze,
still trying to hold the little moon
that she could no longer clasp to her breast.
All those running hands
folded in a crumble
were then suddenly still..
the brown ants flaming all over
like fire burning down a mother
with her unborn child.