Forgotten Serendipity

The ending of a book is always sad;

even the fairytales that conclude

with a shimmering promise:

‘Happily ever after’.

One always lingers at the last line

as if at the door of a room

with many fond memories

-- one last time,

before closing the door forever.

And there is that strange bittersweet feeling

that chokes one up.

Perhaps it’s the knowledge

that nevermore can the story

tell itself to you
like this.

Surely one can read it over and over again?

But nevermore will each page

seem so perfectly like an oyster

prised open to discover thoughts

of a pristine pearly sheen.

Later, when one flips through the same book,

(no, not the same)
like a box of childhood trinkets,
it is cherished still, yes,

but dusty with the vagueness of an ache

as the mind tries to reach

into the past

--to remember the serendipity

of discovering each knick-knack

-- but in vain.

The ending of a book is always sad.

Bruises

“The most important day for any woman’” they said,

“Today, you begin a new life,”

And strangled her with gold.

Even as everyone laughed

And wished them a happy life

And healthy children,

All she could feel was the biting pain

Of the gold choker with its cruel sheen

And the tight waistband that held her stomach

In a vice-like grip

As if to embrace the womb

That would now define her life.

That night, when she took them all off

Before the mirror,

There were bruises on her neck.

There were bruises on her neck.

When they found the young girl

Dumped like a used rag

In a dusty corner of the construction site,

There were bruises…

And much, much worse.