Saturday, June 19, 2010

The Arithmetics of marriage

The silence, dark and heavy as a monsoon cloud,
Sits between us like a rock with jagged edges,
Clamps itself to the walls like a hungry lizard,
Sleeps on the floor as a carpet heavy with dust.

In the clutter of the cups on the dinner table,
In the noise that you made while washing dishes,
In the high volume of the TV switched to a cricket match,
In the ear splitting rock that you love and I hate,
In the loud rustle of the book that I read
while you desperately feigned sleep,
The silence lay concealed, an invisible presence.

The silence dug deep roots in the corners,
It flavoured the dishes and coated the tongue
so thickly that in the shadows of the dark room
I could hear our anger and our remorse,
Your eyelashes as they opened and closed
measuring silently the undiminishing distance on the bed,
The rigid curves of our backs that we knew would relax
with just a gentle, stolen touch.

While our words hid in the closet,
Tired of being used as weapons,
Counting on their fingertips like beads of a rosary,
Who had last revolted against the reigning silence.

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