When Rajiv was blown up
Before her belly would caress
and press the bomb in her sari,
she gave the man a garland
for his neck and bent
to touch his feet
It was just the way my father touched
the power button on our television’s waist
as it shook on the wooden dresser
My mother had taught me
enough words to understand
the man was shocked
and killed in the same instant
I’d loved enough to know
each night I wanted to sleep
with a quiet stomach,
watching the faces I’ve always known
I’d lived long enough to learn
of inventions shared,
like the television and bombs,
blasting terror in tiny brains
As my mother bent to tuck me in bed
the night the woman blew up Rajiv,
I searched the pleats of her sari
for the shrapnel of fairy tales
***
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Myself a poetry fan; and truly loved reading it…..It’s so different, has both dark and soft aspects. Kudos to your thoughts.
Thank you, Rajashree. I appreciate your kind feedback.
Loved it.
Thank you, Sushi.
Oh I just love it, dark and haunted yet soft and fuzzy.
Thank you for reading, David.
Lovely… nice observation of a sensitive heart
Thank you, Sujayaa.