A mere carrying never makes a mother.
A gynecologist
observes soft
feminine rhythms
on a monitor.
Currency conceals compassion.
Hospital sweeper
carries remnants
of a plastic love in
his black bucket.
His squint-eyes
are conditioned.
Pulses pause
unnoticed in the
bucket. Just two
hundred rupees
bury his conscience.
He seeks shelter in
a dark arrack bottle.
It's a cold-blooded
secret that people
seem not to see.
Abortion is an accepted murder.
First printed in issue # 16 The Literary Hatchet(Pear Tree Press, US)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem