(On listening to Arundhati Roy reading from ” The god of small things“)
She poured her words
over a remembered ache
over wounds made by these very words
the first time I raced over their razor-like edges.
Holding my convictions firmly
as a cloak around me
-a feeble shield against the onslaught
lurking in between the pages of her book
falling deeper into the quagmires of passion
Holding fast to the raw, slippery edges
grazing my elbows as I tried my best to break
a free fall into the depths of a river
with a drowned moon.
Where familiar heartbreaks smiled from
within disturbingly, deep ripples…
And I lost the battle then
Surrendering my meager experiences
Drowning in the waters under which she sat writing
sucking me into her darkness
making me live the deaths, the madness and the bleeding life.
When she knifed through those scars again
I sat smiling with pleasure
hugging my secret wounds proudly
reveling in the re-awakening sensation
of my virgin read.
©Reena Prasad 11th Nov 2012