Women's Eye

By Gargi Dhingra

Two luminous lights                And one pumping machine

Enlighten patriarchal culture.

Am I a biological clock? 

Deafening charred mixer        grinds my pulse.

Every time it hurts.

Am I a liquid wall crumpled in the cemetery?

24-7 hours, 60 seconds, and thirty logical trials gauge me to fetch new recipes for blinds.

Blinds—those folks who yearn for scrumptious food at an aghast place (kitchen).

Am I a vermilion treasure of a dichotomous soul?

Fifty times I gasp, rasp, and wasp in thin air. 

Hanging loose           the strings of my mind.

Am I a chaotic cell drenched, liquidated in the breath of human lungs?

Lungs: the diaphragm of the human brain that dumped their existential in the trash pit.

Trashpit—a bunch of nerves connected to accumulate the glory of a woman's eye.

Am I a slouchy muscle to a male chauvinistic world?

360° workaholic, 45°C burning, and 54 times slicking on the profound layers of the deaf world.

Grief, pain, and agony are synonymous with fleshy bones draped in beautiful curves.

(Hunger pangs for the human wolves to clutch, ponder on her body).

Am I a voracious blurb of mosaic dreams?

Hundred times fantasizing        blood on my lips.

I'm vexed by the falconer rising        above the zenith of the spherical sky.

I'm a paragon of a thousand feet high,

 a hum of succulent thoughts.

I'm a goddess of immortals          lurking on peace and integrity. 

By Gargi Dhingra