Inside my womb heavy clouds burst end of each month. Cringing, shrinking like a dough I scratch the bedsheet to write the name of that all-absorbing, circular, nauseating, churning pain. Can pain have a name?

Sitting on haunches I keep my palm on the clouds cajole them to rupture soon and drench the thighs. The obstinate clouds roar and simmer I shiver and toss the pillows, hug the pillows, press them tightly on my breasts.

The clouds burst after a few hours. My tired, exhausted eyes see them flying on the white marble floor. I watch them changing shapes before turning into a river, flowing over the morning sky.

Moumita Alam is a poet from West Bengal. Her poetry collection The Musings of the Dark is available on Amazon.

Featured image:  Yuris Alhumaydy / Unsplash