Woman

In my rhetoric I forgot the death
In the throat, a vanishing death
In the smallness of night hours
As all is forgot, as not belonging,
A bundle  of clothes left behind
A knot of a loin-string in the dark
The death of life, slowly whistling
From  dusty trees of  mountains.

I forgot all the untouchable days 
Of passing by a house's side-lane 
With a bundle of clothes in arms
To a well of waters in the backyard
Under trees of concurrent shadows
In a series as they went in  the day.

I forgot my squatting in the veranda 
While accosting  everyone's death
On a passing road of sun and ash.
Then my  touch was death and love
In the smallness of my girl-breasts.
I quickly went woman-dead in shame.

Later I forgot death in my stomach
A bloody bundle of woman-shame,
As a mere shriek that never came.

In rhetoric I forget my dying shriek
That has failed to rise from my  throat
As a vanishing death, a footfall away
In the smallness of my  night hours.

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