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Her Thighs Still Smell of Milk

The poem reflects on a woman's journey filled with expectations and trials, symbolized by her physicality and the imagery of nature around her. It explores themes of loss, memory, and the haunting presence of motherhood, culminating in a tragic event at the border. The visceral language evokes a deep emotional response to the woman's experiences and the remnants of her life.

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906 views2 pages

Her Thighs Still Smell of Milk

The poem reflects on a woman's journey filled with expectations and trials, symbolized by her physicality and the imagery of nature around her. It explores themes of loss, memory, and the haunting presence of motherhood, culminating in a tragic event at the border. The visceral language evokes a deep emotional response to the woman's experiences and the remnants of her life.

Uploaded by

alimehmet53886
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as PDF or read online on Scribd
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Nabanita Kanungo Her Thighs Still Smell of Milk The woman who walked past her home, with expectations in her womb, returned elsewhere with a pail of trials. Her steps must have fallen softly on leaves once red with youth for now they are a blazing canopy of yellow addresses and compensations, written in an awkward hand on the other side of a divided sky. She must have stopped short to gain breath at the comer where trees and everything turn black against a dying sun. Those silhouettes she must have passed, settling the dust raised on streets, late noons, dousing fire with the swell of tides, until they stopped spilling from age’s curve, the container at her hip. Her Krishna must have travelled to that distant haze, on her lips; he outlived her in a song cast through evenings. Her thighs still smell of milk and her bosom, of blood. Why do I want to dredge the music out of her fluids? Now when she has seeped down the stony cracks of my story 26 A Map of Ruins with a limp map half-flying from a shock-stiffened hand, waiting for the last ceremonial rite my memory can afford. For when they killed her at the border a child was still tugging at her dead nipple 27

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