Teesta Review: A Journal of Poetry, Volume 4, Number 2. November 2021. ISSN: 2581-7094
Muse
--- Prerna Kalbag
The turbulent black muck
Waters from the midnight
rain
Shouts and curses
stamping my words
Accusing you,
O witch, you who sit
there,
locked up inside my
nerve drum
You forced me
to hold the pen
And led me right inside
your
grisly den
And dumped me inside
your
piped, glutinous
existence.
I have been walking past
Past the many gnawing
deleterious decks,
living
cooped up inside your
frosty veined rug
Sucking the blood from
your
Tyrannical, repressive
staple-gun.
You have made me
incapable
Incapable of having
those
frivolous pursuits, of
treading, gurgling,
dumping, breathing
Of treading right
outside the esophagus
Connecting my gut to
your
nude nub.
We have been stuck
Stuck with the hatchet
sliding across your
shoulder
through my skull.
We have been stuck with
each other ever since
you
filled me with the
filthy detritus
of your strut.
We have been stuck
Ever since you
punched me
inside that nerve drum
With the wet slush
pouring outside
on the grimy dirty
asphalt
On the night I was
abandoned
and we made love.