A TALE OF EVERY NIGHT
Shamik Banerjee

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 would seldom 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.