Mary and He
Wollstonecraft breathed out imperfect Os in her footnotes
As I pushed out Images of you forcefully conceived.
My pen kissing my paper, and you there formlessly
Tracing lipstick, smoke, cats and Milton (with a difference).
Perhaps on another day I would have wept and pretended not to care
But today the kisses came like poor rhymes and I had to laugh and make you listen.
I hope you heard the trampling of the roses too as Lord Henry epigrammatised
And imagined at least the Corridors of graphic novels that I walked in purple stockings.
Jayati Das is currently pursuing a Master of the Arts Degree in Literature in English at Delhi University. Contact: email@example.com