![]() ![]() ![]() When the scars no longer showed and the faraway sea could be smelt between her legs, she dissolved in a mist of aftersmoke. Watching that breast sprout back from its roots, the lone woman learnt to outgrow her loss. Long after that land had turned to ashes, the rest of her plucked breast bled. Vending vengeance, she made a bomb of her left breast and blew up the blasted city. The king died of shame, the queen died of shock. She stormed the palace, flung her other anklet at the bloody throne. ![]() A week later, she received his body bag With the executioner's seal on the toe tag. She forgave that bitch, buried the bad blood between, gave him her anklet of rubies to sell and begin some business with. Her no-money man was back home by then- ditched and duped by his dancer mistress. That wetness, with its lunar reek, never came. Militancy- are marked with artistic sensibilities and worldly human ties of warmth and desire and address the rigid orders of caste that consign the underdogs. Floundering at forty, she twisted safety pins into spirals, chewed on pencil-ends, tore down calendars, became a hurricane about the house. ![]() She thought she was dying-ants crawled under her flaking skin, migraines visited her at mealtimes, her tender-as-tomato breasts bruised to touch, her heart forgot its steady beat. ![]()
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