Poetry

Annie Spratt photo

By

Amit Parmessur

Smothered

She who gives birth to triplets cannot ask for a third breast

— African Proverb

After a gruelling day at work, the mother had some arrack

before breastfeeding the baby, but she soon fell asleep.

Now his eyes were dead, his body cold, his soul gone.

He had been choked under the woman’s big body.

When she discovered the disaster, she couldn’t cry out, “Jesus,

wake my angel up!” Nor say, “Wake up angel!”

Not even, “Angel!”

Death prevailed: somber, ear-splitting silence; his bloody nose;

an innocent murderer’s guilt.

When the father witnessed the muffled agony, he too went to pieces.

Little Noster was just nine days old and cuter company than

his siblings, who were bundled off, weeping.

Soon, the dormant vicinity erupted and began to pour in.

Something’s Rolling Down

Then we hammer them unconscious, cut their throats

and drain the blood. It is a slow death. (…) Usually

the customers take the blood home with them

afterward. — A Guandong Chef

Like a rust-colored artichoke, little-known, even a lion’s

tooth cannot pierce. A tiny dinosaur, once had a choice.

A friendly crocodile, now a delicacy. Walking on sand

and soil with humble eyes and short legs, with sharp claws,

with a graceful tail, unrolling tongues longer than myself,

these days, I’m the wily anteater being easily outwitted.

I may walk away before you realize who the pangolin is.

You people know not the pain of hearts boiled to death.

How cheap extinction is: it’s recorded, poetized and

monetized in expensive mortuaries. Obesity and peril have

comfortable cages; toothless toilers, with human ears,

reap tragedy. Such a sweet creature, the only scaly mammal

whose liveliness is frozen inside a whim, mixed with

fish and snakes. What to do? My plight is someone’s

pleasure, someone’s panacea. The most smuggled living

beauty may no longer grace the ground. Let not future eyes

see only posthumous portraits from vicarious paintbrushes.

A beautiful and delicious seed in a sound pod. A harmless

hiss or sweet stink when stung. An unwavering wave

in a difficult sea. May not be about roses, but caring,

undertaking exhausting trips alone in the blurred moonlight.

Such a sweet creature, but self-destruction is to be killed

for your virtues.

Freedom, a feeling callous humans owe us. Once climbing

trees and digging holes, connecting heaven and hell. Now

trapped in limbo, vanishing fast. Such a sweet creature.

A little round planet, the unproven aphrodisiac, the pangolin.

Amit Parmessur

Born in 1983, Amit Parmessur is a poet and teacher. He has been published in several print and online journals. A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Web nominee, he lives on one of the most beautiful islands in the world, Mauritius.