It was the day that
The bird flew away to a horizon
Unknown, beyond reach
Incapable of childish marriages and fluid births,
Setting out a cry, distinct in its screech, the retaining tone
Scratched the earth, until colorless blood oozed out of it
Drop by drop, and then a flood...
I did not remember anything.
I was still taking the fragrance of the smothered rice bowl
Empty of its contents
And stripped of its identity
But I did ask, and further asked myself in the dark,
About the shiver down my spine
The shiver had turned into a
Stirring
Something was being churned in the granary.
A small grain, a jinx
Wafted about in the sick air
I did not remember anything
I was still taking the fragrance
Of the smothered rice bowl,
Empty of its contents
Stripped of its identity
Something was being cooked
Persistently in frivolous extents
That ensnared my instincts
Cooked and cooked
Till scarlet,
Fresh from my blood.
