Belated
/In my dreams,
your eight year old skin is purple,
the colour of blackberries
lacerating on our courtyard floor
under the season’s impetuous rains.
You fervently hug
the corner between bed and wall,
your back protected from an
anger always more inexplicable
to you than the rains. In your eyes
is a quietness
that smothers into silence the whips
thrashes, blows that steadily fall
upon you. You refuse to cower
or scream, and I always arrive late.
By Basudhara Roy
From: India
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