{"id":1651,"date":"2012-07-18T17:35:45","date_gmt":"2012-07-18T17:35:45","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=1651"},"modified":"2012-07-19T02:53:26","modified_gmt":"2012-07-19T02:53:26","slug":"sweta-srivastava-vikram-0712","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/sweta-srivastava-vikram-0712\/","title":{"rendered":"Sweta Srivastava Vikram"},"content":{"rendered":"<div><strong><span style=\"font-size: large;\">For the men who mugged my husband<\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<div><strong>\u00a0<\/strong><\/div>\n<div>He wasn\u2019t in the wrong place<\/div>\n<div>displaying indiscretion, swaggering<\/div>\n<div id=\"yui_3_2_0_1_1342630864829234\">like planktons in an ocean of alcohol,<\/div>\n<div>discussing the art of pollination with pimps.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>It was six p.m.,<\/div>\n<div>a time when the sun leaves<\/div>\n<div>the cacophony of New York City<\/div>\n<div>in the arms of solace, heads towards home.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>He was walking towards the entrance<\/div>\n<div>of the 14<sup>th<\/sup>\u00a0street subway stop, armed<\/div>\n<div>with groceries for my party and a poisoned apple\u2014<\/div>\n<div>a bag from the Apple store as a gift for my birthday.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>Bees smelled honey, showed up from behind\u2014<\/div>\n<div>a kick, a punch knotting his spine,<\/div>\n<div>ribs on the floor, face licking dirt,<\/div>\n<div>rats running, lights on the PDA crushed.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>As the city witnessed this crime<\/div>\n<div>and ER ran urgent tests,<\/div>\n<div>I sat ten blocks away, unaware,<\/div>\n<div>sipping chardonnay tasting like tears.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>I am no clairvoyant,<\/div>\n<div>yet I could sense something wasn\u2019t right.<\/div>\n<div>I left early, not knowing<\/div>\n<div>bad news was two steps ahead of me.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>I was told the hospital tried to reach me,<\/div>\n<div>but I checked\u2014<\/div>\n<div>no missed calls or messages.<\/div>\n<div>I want to believe doctors don\u2019t lie.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>When I got home that night<\/div>\n<div>flailing bones opened the door\u2014<\/div>\n<div>my faith screeched, blisters of anger grew,<\/div>\n<div>mistrust crawled like ants on my spine.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>Don\u2019t for a moment think you won,<\/div>\n<div>a woman never forgives.<\/div>\n<div>I curse you with my silent hands\u2014karma<\/div>\n<div>can smell vomit, take care of everything.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>And as you turn a hundred and twenty,<\/div>\n<div>and rats nibble on the bricks of your home,<\/div>\n<div>may your body never feel free<\/div>\n<div>as loneliness strangles you in an airless room.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">&#8230;<\/span><\/div>\n<div><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">&#8230;<\/span><\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div><strong><span style=\"font-size: large;\">Country living ain\u2019t my thing<\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n<div><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">&#8230;<\/span><\/div>\n<div><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">&#8230;<\/span><\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>Waking up to the sound of my breath<\/div>\n<div>hurling hostile stones, I bury<\/div>\n<div>my face until the morning mist nudges me.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>The blue bedspread spread, like the hips<\/div>\n<div>of a seventeen-year old cheerleader,<\/div>\n<div>over the angry February trees.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>The breeze, grunting mother bear,<\/div>\n<div>announcing its unwelcomed arrival,<\/div>\n<div>and the spring, lurking around, shivers.<\/div>\n<div><em>\u00a0<\/em><\/div>\n<div>The silence of the hills, the faith<\/div>\n<div>in unlocked doors and cars make me<\/div>\n<div>write verses of sadness every night.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>The voluptuous orange in the sunset<\/div>\n<div>an introduction to the odor of solitude.<\/div>\n<div>I wait for a firefly to keep me company.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>My shadow hides behind<\/div>\n<div>the feast of termites as darkness<\/div>\n<div>perforates and hisses:<em>\u201cYou\u2019re alone.\u201d<\/em><\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div>I mutter half-sinking: Hated the hills<\/div>\n<div>growing up, hate bucolic living even today.<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n<div><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">&#8230;<\/span><\/div>\n<div><span style=\"color: #ffffff;\">&#8230;<\/span><\/div>\n<div><strong>Author Bio:\u00a0<\/strong>Sweta Srivastava Vikram (<a href=\"http:\/\/www.swetavikram.com\/\" rel=\"nofollow\" target=\"_blank\">www.swetavikram.com<\/a>) is an award-winning writer,\u00a0poet, novelist, author, essayist, educator, and blogger whose musings have translated into three chapbooks of poetry, two collaborative collections of poetry, a novel, a nonfiction book of prose and poems (upcoming in 2012), and a full-length collection of poems (upcoming in 2013). Her scribbles have also appeared in several anthologies, literary journals, and online publications across six countries in three continents. Sweta has won two Pushcart Prize nominations, an International Poetry Award, Best of the Net Nomination, Nomination for Asian American Members\u2019 Choice Awards 2011, writing fellowships, and was short listed for the Independent Literary Awards. Taj Mahal Review describes her as\u00a0<em>&#8220;A poet with hauntingly beautiful talent.&#8221;<\/em>\u00a0Sweta has held several artist residencies in Europe and America and worked on collaborative projects with artists from Zimbabwe and Australia.\u00a0A graduate of Columbia University, she reads her work, teaches creative writing workshops, and gives talks at universities and schools across the globe. Sweta lives in New York City with her husband. You can follow her on Twitter (@ssvik)\u00a0or Facebook (<a href=\"http:\/\/www.facebook.com\/Words.By.Sweta\" rel=\"nofollow\" target=\"_blank\">http:\/\/www.facebook.com\/Words.By.Sweta<\/a>).<\/div>\n<div><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>For the men who mugged my husband \u00a0 He wasn\u2019t in the wrong place displaying indiscretion, swaggering like planktons in an ocean of alcohol, discussing the art of pollination with pimps. It was six p.m., a time when the sun leaves the cacophony of New York City in the arms of solace, heads towards home. [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1651","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v24.2 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>Sweta Srivastava Vikram - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/sweta-srivastava-vikram-0712\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Sweta Srivastava Vikram - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"For the men who mugged my husband \u00a0 He wasn\u2019t in the wrong place displaying indiscretion, swaggering like planktons in an ocean of alcohol, discussing the art of pollination with pimps. 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