Beating Hand
This time they had characters.
Hips were his father — moving, impulsive, wanting to do something, go somewhere.
Then shoulders started to shrug. Shoulders were his mother.
She was like banane — I don’t care what you do, leave me alone.
Hands gestured as if to say, go away from me.
Hands started dancing in front of him, moving randomly.
“This is their fight,” he said.
He was watching. They were fighting.
This had happened many times before, but this time it had a story.
Hands moved so closely and randomly, almost touching but never meeting.
Then something different happened —
it was an applause.
Two hands wide open met loudly in the middle.
Then it turned out to be a fight.
The left side went up and started beating the right hand.
It lost it.
Any description would fall short —
it was like a mountain beating another one.
It hurt so much — his palm.
Both beaten and beater hurt equally.
He let it go on for a while. Then it stopped.
He started crying.
She was not angry — she was in pain.
In pain of not being understood, supported, ignored, used, unseen —
so many things.
He was shocked not by her aggression, but by her pain.
He moved his legs.
He wanted to walk.
He was impatient.
She shrugged her shoulders.
She was not interested.
She didn’t want to follow.
They started discussing.
They were so close, yet so apart.
They couldn’t reach each other.
She started beating the right.
She had no right in her.
She was opposite of right.
She was left only.
She beat him.
She was pure anger.
She beat him.
She beat him.
Nobody could stop her.
She beat him.
She beat him.
Nobody was there.
She beat him.
There was only pain.
She beat him.
She hurt herself.
She beat him.
He was iron, but still —
she beat him.
For all innocence,
she beat him.
For all the years,
she beat him.
For all the lives,
she beat him.
She beat him to death.
She even beat his death.
She beat him.
It was not anger.
It was pain.
She beat him.
It was a dream —
nobody was sleeping.
A piece of her heart went into his mind.
On his death,
she rained like an ocean.
Iron became cotton.
Noise became lullaby.
Ring became a cradle.
They fell asleep.
She shattered you into pieces.
You were dead for an uncountable time.
For once, she put you in your place —
your grave.
She was all in pain.
And you were all of it.
Her anger.
I love your anger.
She took us all,
from hot water into ice cold.
She melted the iron —
one slap at a time.
She was all anger,
all of it.
No space for a piece of dust.
I am sorry.
I am really sorry.
How honourable was your beating.
Is that the only language you speak?
She speaks better than you.
Now you know:
the strength is
in restraint,
not in release.