Inside my womb
heavy clouds burst
end of each month.
Cringing, shrinking like a dough
I scratch the bedsheet
to write the name of that
all-absorbing, circular, nauseating, churning pain.
Can pain have a name?
Sitting on haunches
I keep my palm on the clouds
cajole them to rupture soon
and drench the thighs.
The obstinate clouds roar
and simmer
I shiver and toss the pillows,
hug the pillows, press them tightly
on my breasts.
The clouds burst after a few hours.
My tired, exhausted eyes
see them flying on the white marble floor.
I watch them changing shapes
before turning into a river,
flowing over the morning sky.
Moumita Alam is a poet from West Bengal. Her poetry collection The Musings of the Dark is available on Amazon.
Featured image: Yuris Alhumaydy / Unsplash