THE WOMAN

A single woman, happy and once married
Is a dangerous game.
Her strings are in her pockets
And there is nothing to pull.
Her laughter is free and her silence stinks
Nonchalance for my meaningful concern.
I scratch her wounds, but her barks,
Too thick to bleed, hurt me under my nails.
She needs no shoulders, for she has no tears
And she cares nothing for her name
For she has discovered joy in her shame.

Did I see her smile,
At the taunts of the married
From their patched up  homes?
Does she know about the rides,
The deleted messages from our phones?.
Can she see through the banter of love
For our loveless spouse,
The silence of aging monotony,
In an otherwise abundant house?

She throws me no bait
But I sniff around waiting for some.
She sails the seas, with the salt of adventure
Stinging her fickle eyes
And I sniff around, my nose in her past,
In her garbage bag,
Planting my filthy thoughts, a scandal
To bring her down to her knees.
But she has learnt to love
The dust in her dress, the tan in her skin,
The grime in her name.
                             Dedicated to the 'virtuous'
                             By Sreeja Nair