The mountain peaks are frosted
The lake placid
The ripples lick the skin right below my
breasts
I stand in the water with my hair let loose
The wild wind washes its woes wearily
The water top is glass like
The weeds rising till my thighs
A small fish as big as my thumb swims
around me
It enters my belly button
Plop
It’s out again
Plop
Around me in a swish
And plop
In it goes again
And plop
As the fish labours on
Quicker and quicker
It feels like something felt before
Or a line that I once read
“maut kehlo jo mohabbat nahin kahne paa'o”
“name it death if you can’t call
it love” (Meena Kumari)
No comments:
Post a Comment