He doesn't tell me
He doesn’t tell me
disappears into the bathroom
stays ten minutes
no toilet sound flushing
comes out with a small brown
paper bag—rolled tight at the top
opens the front door
hands it to a woman
I've never seen before
magma spews
up my body marrow-hot
bone-lit catapults
me out of the house
to spill, wail, rant
trust splattered
I, who can freight
no more children
my then-husband donates
to another woman
who will raise his child
the child I hunger to bear
Dear Amrita,
Thank you for trusting us with something so deeply personal. I can only imagine how much courage it took to write these lines. The image of the small brown paper bag stayed with me long after I finished reading. Some poems don't ask to be admired—they ask to be witnessed. This is one of them.
With affection from Cuttack.
Marrow hot, bone lit. I can see and feel that!