The women lay on the sheets, like strawberry pink polythene
Trembling on a pavement with dust, trembling on a puddle
Trembling on the gutter with a stench of sour rust and then
Flying away to another world of ceaseless, intense blight
To be picked up and thrust back into the circle of being
Plastic, dead, but strong beyond the grasp of putrefaction, elastic.
The women lay along the window sills, yellow sunflowers straining
Petals towards golden lights, away and further away from the brown core
That’s bound to spread its wings, a hawk roosting to devour life
And to savor it till its gluttony has oozed away in fatigued pleasure
Like copulating dogs panting delight in biting off the bitch’s flesh
To plant a pain that taints a body and paints a life in vain.
The women lay with their backs on the floor, their eyes on the ceiling
As clouds tempted their vision towards a paralysis of reality,
Magic and blues, their eyelids never closed like counterfeit Barbies
They never let a sound escape from between their chipped, faded pouts
The same well-curved smile they wore and dyed them anew
In scarlet, orange, maroon but mostly in some violet shade.
The women lay with silent stings, clutched the gash between
Tolerant banana thighs, all wings were clipped, their breath lost way
Among meandering sighs, and soundless blood that leaked
Hidden inside an unresolved bandage of rainbows, stars and polythene
As the women lay with vacant eyes, and prayed for bail from motherhoodAll the same they understood, the wound is meant to be evergreen.