you have to smell the stink of machismo.
You see many wheelchaired women too,
heads hanging like a broken flower;
they have each a knife to end themselves.
Once there, you quickly rub your hands
in the dust before slitting and dumping
your heart dexterously into the wild wind
for that man’s play, pleasure and peace.
You don’t cry; you sacrifice many a
body part and like the nearby grey smoke
wreathing up slowly, you relish
the crippling experience of staying dead.
Till, renewed, your pink whirligig whirls,
giggling and jiggling the other way round
to say that life isn’t being a dutiful statue
or a scared feather; you learn that life is
about digging a grave for every gravedigger.
Amit Parmessur is a writer who resides in Mauritius.