by Shamik Banerjee
My dearest Cynthia, I kept my vows
On this day of our anniversary.
I sweeped the breezeway, pruned the Beech's boughs
And watered the long-swagging Peony.
Our bed is neatly done; a coverlet
In crimson-murrey is upon it spread.
At eve I'll play your favourite cassette
And on my bosom gently place your head.
As promised, I have lacquered your long nails
And helped you don a camlet red and bright,
I've locked the door to mute all outer wails
And shut the louver to dim out the light.
Long you have said, "My husband gave me naught."
Now look at you—all complaints are suppressed.
Now maybe you are smiling at this thought—
'My husband's good although he's not the best.'
How meekly now you're sitting on the chair,
Your cheeks don't have the former fury's speck—
I wonder if your comportment was fair
I would not use that blade against your neck.
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India.