Lacrymals and Clitorises

There was no court case
There was no scandal
There were no shoulders
No chins
No tears
It created a hole
Where lacrymals and clitorises went to die.

It lent a kind of convently glory
To her wisdom
And her beauty
She coulda been strong-jawed Audrey
With delicate eyes
But lacrymals and clitorises are the biology behind the light in one’s eyes
She didn’t have those
The NGO called her specially abled
She returned from her dreams of perfect shapes floating in a river
To embrace her frozen body.
She felt nothing
And nothing had become a friend.

Should one feel anger against one’s aggressor?
She felt nothing
Perhaps nothing was a kind of emotion
The English language
Is scanty
In that respect.
Said the comparative literature professor
Comparative literature is called clit. For giggles.

She watched the show on Netflix
And asked why
It called for so much narration
Her own sweet and sour deadness
Had gone unrecorded
She was now specially abled
She felt nothing
Except the gasoline excitement of morning Delhi
Or the stale beverage of morning after in Philadelphia.
Nothing was her friend.
There was no court case.
There was no scandal.
There was utter brokenness of something
That one knew not one had.
It created a hole
Which became a pilgrimage for lacrymals and clitorises.

And so the ladies come and go
And write laws and poems too
Michelangelo dies a quiet death
To give it dignity
They talk in corners
Was he the one?
Or was he the one?
They are all sinners and sinned in their own right.
Life was complex and all that
They dress up to go to their pilgrimage.

So they can pray for blessing from Her Grace, The Lady of lacrymals and clitorises.


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