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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