Dying In a Bucket
A mere carrying never makes a mother.
A gynecologist
observes soft
feminine rhythms
on a monitor.
Currency conceals compassion.
Hospital sweeper
carries remnants
of a plastic love in
his black bucket.
His squint-eyes
are conditioned.
Pulses pause
unnoticed in the
bucket. Just two
hundred rupees
bury his conscience.
He seeks shelter in
a dark arrack bottle.
It’s a cold-blooded
secret that people
seem not to see.
Abortion is an accepted murder.
First printed in issue #16 of The Literary Hatchet(Pear Tree Press, US)
Copyright © Fabiyas M V | Year Posted 2018
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