I won’t complain

I won’t say
that our neem
needs tending
 
or that the 
poor squirrels
have been
returning home
unattended,
 
 
I won’t
talk of the
gulab petal you
put inside
Marquez’s novel
 
which has
quietly settled
on the pages
like a newly wed
crimson bride,
 
I won’t
complain
of how long
it has been

I don’t have
half as much
strength
to twist
and turn
in pain.

 
just
look how
my poems
shrink
like a walnut.
 
 
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