The street with the wall at the end

In the morning the feet shuffle through streets
Listening to God’s song in the ears, the splatter
Of water before houses, brooms before houses
Women making gurgling noises in night’s throat
Of water- cleaning of sleep, on tongues stretched.
The men have tooth-paste foam at their mouths.

Some days we reach the history of an old woman
Walking the feet of yesterday’s marriages, pickles
Made, worship of deities, hospitals of childbirths
Babies crying in lungs, dark nights spent on bodies
Silk sarees in steel trunks, fragrant brides of sons
Sweetmeats brought from gods, fears of violence.
An unease occurs of slowly dawning futility of it all
And the feet somehow end up at the wall at the end
And have to trace the morning back to a side street
Losing sight of the woman and her enacted history.




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