SA (January19,1981 / Bangladesh)

Burns And Blisters

I'm afraid promises burst as a child's balloons
on barbed-wires, not that smooth like bubbles
do on Grandpa's backyard mud-pool. Nothing's

worth watching rubbles, crumpled drink-cans,
iron-sheets all perforated and rusted, and piles
of useless furnishings under neon-lights. Yet I look

on and read suicide bombings somewhat trendy
now on dailies and your text message: I can't bear
this load of your love that must fall like a boulder. Tell

how I can take back bits of myself from you,
Salt Hon. I read landmines on African cornfields
and blood instead of oil in the Middle East. I watch

Kiarostami's ABC Africa and the snapshots
taken as pieces of photogenic poverty. Once
again I get to your hints at yourself burdened

like Sisyphus. I'll be punishing myself with errors
both private and public; and intolerable the fact
that your sense of guilt is still stronger than

what I've given you in small changes. Blistered
as I'm by your kind threats for the break-up,
you unroll for one's unlove or lust a Persian carpet

but for me long sunk in contempt's molten tar
the tattered one burning up in flames, walk
miles in summer's heat or cry for that whiplash

of your Master's. You are throwing me out
as wastage into your unlove that's burning
more than Dante's inferno or piercing more than

thorns of Christ nailed on the Cross. I read walls
can't ensure peace. A long slow burn it is in me.
Who dares skin me off? I'm wearing blisters.


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