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The Wolf who cried Boy

Tript Kaur



Sing little coin, sing in my palm 

Bounce and return. 

Now whizz past streetlights into 

Metal caps with pointy edges 

Scratch my hand 

Drink in the blood 

Of my coked veins 

And store it in cola bottles. 



Crinkle Crinkle little note,  

Slip from pockets like rote, 

And crunch before you 




The heart behind, to mint a new one 

For angry hands stretched out of windows pulled down 

Spitting and smoking Jaguars 

Wipe my Slumdog fingers on window-shields 

Before the red light asks the ‘Busy/ No time/Get out of the way/Bloody traffic jam’, 

To push my pendulum-body to mean position. 



I am Many. We swarm the zebra  

Torn from grasslands and tarred 

For crossing into the next birth 

Of an Antilla. 

One box of tissues, tricolour flag, sunshade, towel, pirated book 

Knock on dark glass and darker gazes, unseeing. 

My hand is a product, my face is a bazaar 

The many multiples of me,  

Scatter chiaroscuro like 

Into huddled faces of Incredible India’s poor 

Perfect for photography. 



Nervous fingers why do you creep 

Count my vertebrae in winter? 

Why do you sleep 

When my spine is a splinter? 

Eyes eyes so many eyes eyes eyes eyes eyes 

Follow, reach, grab, play, savour 

My vagabond blanket 

My broken chappal 

My father’s stash of beer bottles 

Lidless, burning through my vest 

Sharp nails drill into my skull 

Tighten screws of where my money has to go- 

“Yes, that is all I got today.” 

And my sore cheek sinks soundlessly 

Until my face drips off. 



Colour my collapse 

In two mountains, a river and a smiling sun 

Change pastel stubs for Dunhill stubs 

And smoke me into tomorrow. 

I shrink to my skeleton for medical students 

Ribs, lean muscles, memories of cheeks 

Quiet chest, wheezing lungs 

Smog and acid rain 

Have almost fried my brain 

eunuch-pimp-policeman-Father-Road Roller-Municipal Corporation-The State Government- 

The Vote—have taught me- 

  1. It is a free country
  2. I have the right to learn
  3. I have the right to protest
  4. I have the right to choose my religion 


McDonald’s: For Sale (First Come First Serve basis) 

Burger (almost whole), freshly thrown, patty intact. 


Get. Set. Go. 


Tript Kaur is a recent graduate of the MPhil in Modern South Asian Studies from the University of Cambridge, UK. Her love for English and Punjabi literature, particularly children’s literature, has led her to compose poetry and short stories catering to young readers. She hopes to derive strength from her regional, linguistic, religious and gender identities to comprehensively work for social justice.