The Women Here
The women here
They want to
show you something. Maybe it’s their role, or function,
of their lost meals,
or pieces of their skin or fractured bones that lay scattered
at the ward next door.
Maybe it’s the ribs
of their offspring
that protrude like fish scales swept to the side against broken bricks by piss watered rain that rush through alleyways and half standing tents.
Or their barefoot feets amputated arms
and chapped lips
and forgotten smiles that remain breathless
and dry under the ruthless heat of the matriarch sun; they rock to and fro cursing superstitiously pulling out dry hands
and chipped fingers in your face.
steal before dusk in panic, with a flaming belly,
as flights of children, naked and thin,
scurry past her weeping eyes and dusty lashes towards bridges, lonely, like her thoughts.
like the skeleton
of forgotten clay
pots that house
of spider nests,
will be the trembling thief inside her thighs.
The women here are different. They want to show
you their sagging breasts
and limp hands,
that tremble with fear at the sound of a burning kettle from across the street, while dreaming of coffins to escape
the promise of the
next sequel that will creep, and creep.
And like the smell of dung or burnt
naan in clay ovens,
as a mujahideen lingers amongst the smoke, and threaten, the neck lines of black sheep.
The women here
quietly amongst themselves,
picking on pink scabs
with the earsplitting
wind and crickets that hide in the corner of
infested roof tops at 3 am.
They will sit,
murmuring about the
flood that brought malaria.They will rock something in their bony
arms. An infant, a rejected girl, with caved eyes,
scorched lips and four fingers.
And there is a mood that will hover
like black smoke that sheds a bitter trail like
the parched skin
of the hooded cobra by the empty well.
Every woman here is different.
Every woman has a tale to tell.
Copyright @ By Author V.S.Atbay
From The Book: Epiphany - A Collection of Poems.
Publisher Friesenpress, 2013