Day 17 #napowrimo Prompt: An unusual point of view

A clot, blue and red in memory
Then spooling,
a white lake in the palace of breast

The milk has no identiy
It is neither singular nor plural
Each molecule a slimy lotus,
dreaming like the white sky suspended in dust

There is a waterfall of voice
and the milk transmorphs into an embryo

limping and stuttering
between warm, red muscles,
bright ions of flesh and tiny plops of grease

There is a waterfall of voice,
the cow’s endless grunting

Its groggy echo
resounding between her flat, plateau teeth
And the milk learns to gurgle,
learns to froth for the very first time

It is fond of sleep,
sleep and lullabies
It knows of nothing but eternal rest and joy
Until suddenly,

It spills in quakes,
blasts into a separate universe
Drawn out with the tweezer of nail,
it falls into a bucket and screams

It has fallen
It wails, it wails
but not a single soul knows this whimpering

This is a different whimpering
The men don’t know it
The dead nod to it

It roams in a silver bucket
and hooks to the only vascular thing,
the stench of man
It forms eddies around him
Froths and bubbles like a winter hot spring

Froths and bubbles
Froths and bubbles
It does not realise when
it falls into a pan
Its tail on fire
It wonders in its last minute
what it is…
It doesn’t even know where it begins,
where it ends,
what space it holds,
what volume is its…

It falls into anything
It spreads to infinty
It condenses to a frozen bite
It knows not
It knows not
It knows not
It screams
It screams
It rises like a solitary wail
in the burning pot

Everything is on fire.
The milk in its death
gulped by a man
The flap of limp tongue
like a landscape
over which it bursts
then drops past the breast
and hears
the gurgle of a voice
Its final dance
Its final dance
in the red ocean of dreams

©️ Aakriti Kuntal

3 thoughts on “The Final Dance

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