Butler says bodies matter. Over it are written the codes of diktats- 

From how the strands of hair must fall to toe-rings in feet, covered legs 

fully hizabing them. Choose the one with small feet, wear brass coil for

 a sleek neck, send them to fattening camps, the savage gavage, for 

voluptuous bodies bring better grooms, marry them off to a deity then

auction her virginity. Or better reduce their libido and carry a Khatna.

From cutting fingers, ironing breasts, to closing the v-passage. Our bodies

are conditioned for the agony, the rituals are perpetually etched to hang

our pep and moxie in a mortar mix of guilt and shame. 

Be modest, walk modest, sit modest, speak modest, modesty is the

shibboleth for your nourishment. One size fits all, hair evenly 

tapered, your hair should not ask for attention. And the make-up, 

it's inviting highly suggestive, anti-modest, anti-civilizational, it 

sows dissension, rides you on the path of self-rule, to paint your 

body as you please, woman, you are not even free linguistically: 

look at carte blanche: unconditional discretion vs mistress to a man. 

Absolute authority over bodies is too much to ask for. Productivity is 

hampered if we get into Science labs or STEM subjects. 

Destroy the lingo, redo the register, shift the jargon, alter the proverb,

rephrase the cuss, because we still haven't got it equal!

To all missed opportunities, lack of diversities, unconducive environments

To offers unaccepted, proposals passed on, and choices deceased, another birth

awaits to grumble and growl. A far cry from the ceilings, closeted living, 

trembling hearts, choked windpipes and gaged tongues, earful walls asking to

stone the sky, and hammer into the glass roof for a blameless walk over the heavens.

The ontology of loss is beyond the grasp of time and space. Loss is never really a loss, it is 

like a follicle entrapped in the intricate and circuitous world of memory. If the follicle is not 

plucked, this seed will turn into a tree, respiring melancholy into a thousand splinters of joy, 

laughter, sharing togetherness, teasing and irritating, pulling down each other's hair; all lie 

scattered on the floor. Paring down the pain of parting, I shred and trim the sharpness of the 

acidulous words, carve the slouchy deceit, rejoin the odds and ends of the leftover with a gold 

tint of hope, powdered with the gleaming twinkles of vivid dreams. Keeping the cracks and 

fractures of our bond, I refine this damage with an epoxy coating and lacquered desire to be 

on my own.

The erratic meanderings of this line lead to the next

 marking and set off like the destiny of the lovers

   with her, away from her, without her, into her,

     that serrated geometric configuration which

       sends up dizziness in the spine. Like swift

      and sharp jabbing by the Doctor with

    anaesthesia, your stupor puts the chatter

 of the brain into a coma-like state.

 

be like a snake-plant, on the porch of American Gothic,

 thick upright, leaves stand and gaze with blank wonder.

  like Mother-in law's tongue, vermin-like

   Or take only a little space as any ideal floor plant.

  just seek out the sol to be bright, but it should

 be indirect, just the right amount.

stay in the dark corner and you will just be fine

even the State was once a mandala.

 

the abode of the deity. The other day, these words, came

  to me and said let us be free and find a new wizard, maybe

   on a new couch, spiral-shaped with a new gravity.

    Footloose and fancy-free, battered in the crowd-crush

     of the word galaxy. Once they fly away there is no

       looking back, they migrate into another heart. How does

      a storm begin in the sea? One stone in the water and

    the mandala ripples. Memory fades but its trauma remains

    like broken, pixelated images. Creeping in like the snake

   whispers into Eve. Memories revive, the whole cycle repeats

  revenge becomes a sweet pain and shrieks a sweet sadness.

 The pattern becomes cryptic, and energy therapeutic.

 . . .

  Pareidolia. In the third eye, I squeeze my assiduities into

a new world, constellated colors sprawling and rolling out

 of stellar remnants.

Pain is like a fallen morsel 

of a sweet pudding,

Tears come after it

like an unwanted trail 

of ants

on a numbing

Sunday afternoon.

Don’t kill the ants

don’t wipe the tears

Let them take that piece 

of food, it might be

all they have.

Pain is all 

the tears have.

Learn the taste 

of its salt,

develop it until

your system gets 

used to it,

then there is no

looking back.

Salt makes you

sturdy. You can 

face any challenge 

in life. The reward

of removing it

would be 

organs

a little less 

damaged.

But life without

pain would be bland

and deluding, as a 

crumbled leaf, which

leaves its family tree. 

If you are not 

vigilant stepping over 

that leaf which sighs 

its last gasp 

then why 

should you be 

treated humanely,

Compassionately?

Pain demands

retribution,

a circle of

what you give 

comes back.

The day you obliged

the trickeries and frame-ups

endorsed their perjury

shouldered their lies

pillared their cock and bull story

                was the day you ripped 

                us apart, like the gun-shot

                once it leaves the barrel

                there is no going back

                            it tore and injured the

                            anatomy of our marriage

                            the ribs of trust, the spleen

                            of unspoken assumptions,

                            for betrayal, like a bullet not 

                            just pierces the faith, it 

                            shatters the sturdy bones

                            of vows, the leaned limps

                            of intimacy.

. . .

               You appeared as 

               the petrichor, after

               a long period of dry

              gust, layers of insipid

              care withers, soaking 

              me in inundation.

Traveling across miles, crossing oceans, my excitement knew no bounds as I landed on the 

soil of the States, from one airport to another from airbus to narrow-body aircraft, Boeing to 

the feeder-liner. As I stepped out to reach my pro tem shelter I was stuck by the frightful 

mayhem of silence, a stench of dull indifference, brazen chutzpah of frigid and frost hearts 

everywhere within my ambit. A glorious light of kindness appeared with its nimbus halo and 

took over me. She offered me benevolence, food of mercy, a haven of camaraderie. Drinking 

from the cup of kindness, I learn to swallow pride, be unprejudiced, and embrace.