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You Don't Know

Cornflakes,
For breakfast;
Perhaps boiled eggs too.

You don't know
I like puttu and kadala,
puttu like Himalayan snowflakes,
kadala, made with fresh coconut
fried till they ooze
my favorite aroma.

You don't know
that I blinked at the moon
through the wooden banister-
my fingers glued
at the epicentre,
the taste of blood.

My dentist's appointment
endlessly deferred,
Our daughter's marriage,
Your cold and fever.
Friday, February 21, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: feminism
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
The tension in a husband-wife relationship
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4/23/2021 10:22:48 AM # 1.0.0.560