Sri Lankan woman, Stands at a junction, to embark, On a career or a baby, rarely both, Toying with her need of the hour, To juggle the onus of Being the graceful gender, And a descendent, Of mitochondrial eve. How beautiful is a woman in a sari, A brief exhibition of her navel, A glimpse
Tag: Women
Explorer of a patriarchal universe, Far from Joan of Arc or Virgin Mary, The heresy on her blunted lips, How she cannot swallow Everything man throws at her No pies or bananas or compliments. How the candyfloss world, man sees, Is embittering to her own two eyes, The fairytale-less universe she has inherited, And the
The many personalities from Virgin Mary to Mary Shelley, The many forms from Kate Moss to Ashley Graham, The many faces from Eve to Audrey Hepburn, The model who struts a hint Of cleavage or a glimpse of buttocks In the open secrets of Victoria, The vital statistics of a muse Who is the vital
I fell asleep on a text book, Studying, worming through books. Making swift glances at women Who are bona fide nerds. The glasses that embellish their faces The library chicks, pecking On a moment in history, Opening a door, climbing in, And we are bookies, booking a room Boggling each
I’m just a beta male, far from an alpha, A submissive type who like to be, Taken advantage of. The type for, feminists, And those women who love to wear the pants at home. I have a bison type chest that is broad Near the shoulders and vertically, I climb to a strapping
To that de facto window Where you catch all sorts of birds Ones with feathers and ones with dermis, That become with time, A non-sense that ruffles nothing Except the mirror of a once-lived summer When ornithology was not To lure the bird-brained lovebirds, Only to make you Audubon Unzipping his bird-trap, To where birds
It is never easy when the bumper Season of mangos comes to an end. We look at mangoes, like we look At a woman’s breasts, starting with her Cleavage. We look at the color of the dress, Yellow and green, streaked around in mosaic paint. And we keep looking at the mango Wondering, if we
The arm that pulls now pushes The eyes that once glimmered like tangerines Now are ripened like blood oranges. The body that used to dance in percussion Is now a crash test dummy. Yet she is slaved to him She will always be his naked Barbie. The lipstick hurricane. The muse of his entropy And
She doesn’t always come out of the mouth Of a toothpaste tube. Fact not fiction. That is the cardinal rule for a woman. It is the mystery, the allure, the face-veil We don’t see past. The mystique. And in India and Sri Lanka, women Marry men they have never set their eyes on, Arranged marriages,
