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
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.
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!
Ouch