Poetry at Sangam



by Shailza Rai

I cannot sit still and eat my Sunday breakfast,
warm milk,
skim the rose petals,
bread in wicker baskets
with a silver bowl for home-made butter,
fresh, raw fruit juice only please,
pancakes, and bars of home-made cacao chocolate. 
I cannot sit still and breathe in the green.
The nature,
conditioned to look pretty,
To soothe grated eyes
with landscaped meadow.
The grass mowed to a perfection
armature in-built with water sprinklers.
I cannot bear conversations
on how the land is going to the dogs,
pigs, mice or otters.
Death of 60 reported without ceremony,
discussed until the fifteen-minute conversation
seems almost an hour long.
Each itching to change it
to discuss the fashion exhibition
of a certain dream-horse,
who sows to clothe the walls!
I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.
How do I break these isotopes
of comfortable tables, chairs and lawns.
Break them such that they cannot
be sat on, leaned on, rested on.
Burn them down along with
the scenic, the poetic, the platonic, the satanic.
I want to bring in a Giant Tube 
Refill it with waters from all the arsenic wells of the world
And flood this pretty party
I want to hear, see, talk and engage
with no clothes on my back
I want to feel
The utter inequity
and shame
of it all