Post mortem


 

They promise to lay bare the nuances 
which make some poems belong anywhere
plucked from unknown places
flawlessly put into ingenious spaces
Guides and keys
strip the charm off mysteries
Ripping fragile veils
their hands on some butterfly moments
into which mine too had seeped unaware
tearing out skin and poetic tissue
for  the un-poetic to rummage, pee and shit upon
My greatest fear is of spotting the poet
trying to prevent the assault 
unshaven, naked, dead and unseen
A protective instinct stands up and hollers
A phobia of bumbling fingers groping
and probing the oft violated orifices,
laughing at the mayhem of genesis assails me
as I try to read the inquest report,
face turned away lest I see
a poem’s private parts uncovered
and purple bruises on tender spots.

©Reena Prasad 21 Feb 2013

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