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)
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
