By Gurpartap SinghKaur
Drip Drip Drip
Her head rests on my lap
At last
We’re together
Sharing this much-awaited moment of calm…
I take up my weapon
And write
On the cloth that dresses her,
Commencing at her arm.
Hunhh! She always had the upper hand
When in speech I wished to express
The desire to reach a middle ground.
But she wouldn’t let me
Her my body trespass.
But I will her body Mine
By setting the codes this time
So that when she returns
It’s the s/h/e or any such sort overturned.
So that we get to live
At least the next birth in love and solace…
My mother’s corpse lies in my lap
Alas
In tears
We’re having a quarrel-less concord,
With the ink of grievance
I furiously write,
The cloth is her shroud
The writing a discourse on gender and feminist thought
Which in my speeches
her common comprehension had not caught.
Maybe now she’ll get them
Reading in the world yonder
Maybe these codes will reborn
A body immune to the script of binary gender.
Perhaps, no more Her “son” vs. Them, it would be
But just Us, Us, We, We…
The kitchen tap drips
Drip Drip Drip