By Shamik Banerjee
A TALE OF EVERY NIGHT
By midnight, once his bottle's downed and trashed,
They sprawl out on the couch and talk of stuff
Still unresolved: which tutor for their son
Can make his Latin-fearing brain more tough,
Some loan-related duty yet undone,
Or which investments need to be encashed.
Amidst such things, if something unrequired
Sprouts like a weed upon a verdant yard—
Some past discordance or unfounded blame—
It makes the husband seize her, all off guard,
Distressing her with words that sear like flame.
No sense of fault can douse his evil fire.
And she, the lesser, stands there like a wall,
Mute to his waistbelt's whips. Perhaps, such wild
Savagery even beasts might pause to use.
She finds a little corner, and their child
Has ample proof before him to deduce
The weak's meant to be trampled after all.
Shamik Banerjee resides in Assam with his parents. Some of his recent works will appear in York Literary Review, Willow Review, Thimble Lit and Modern Reformation — to name a few.
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