The Body

By Ipsita Banerjee

What should we do with the body

After the vultures have gone

Poked, prodded and abandoned

Of all dignity shorn.

The crematoriums are bursting

The pyres have all been lit

They fill the graves and rivers

Hoping the gods do their bit

(Where do the gods go, then

Those to whom you pray

What can we do with the bodies

That burden us today?)

I thought I’d say a few words

Mumbled in my head

You sought to drown your grief

In speechlessness instead

We’ve finally become immune

To Death, breathless and bawdy

We look but do not – cannot - see

Because we know not the body

(Where do the gods go, then

Those to whom you pray

What can we do with the bodies

That burden us today?)

We sigh and shake our heads

We protest to alleviate pain

We drown desperation in scotch and ice

And talk of how much it rains.

The petrichor returns each morning

Masking the stench of decay

But what shall we do with that body

That refuses to go away?

By Ipsita Banerjee