a woman can’t just fall down and
break her crown. she can’t have her first
ride (one she wishes to take off
her life list) in an ambulance
just like that. she says she just tripped
on the stairs and literally
fell on her face. or tripped over
the cat. a woman can’t just fall
down and cut her heels. what happened?
she’s not sure. we better ask the
bluebirds and asterisks that are
still whirling round in a halo
over her head, i guess. she’ll be
stuck in that hospital for long.
one must be a dope not to empathize.
she’ll have nightmares in which wheelchaired
women, with eyeballs hanging from
void sockets like broken flowers,
have each a knife to cut themselves
completely if need be one day.
what she won’t tell is how the glass
had severely pierced her slippers.
how she stayed, for endless minutes,
half sitting, half reclining, with
her vision riveted upon
him before he beat her. how she
ran away, clutching her izzat
even tighter to her slashed chest.
he would once wrap her with kisses!
a woman can’t just say she was
beaten by her husband who used
to love her. or can she? maybe.
one must be a fiend not to assist her!
About Amit Parmessur:
Born in Mauritius, Amit Parmessur is a poet and teacher. His writing has appeared in over 160 magazines, namely Galaktika Poetike, WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal. He loves to pick off past experiences and turn them over in the light. A one-time Pushcart and two-time Best of the Web nominee, he nowadays edits The Pangolin Review.