Basudhara RoyI call on love, he opens the door of mansplaining
I seek succour, he scrapes the sore of mansplaining
For every word I use, he hurls a hundred better words
With hefty jargon he lines the shore of mansplaining
Poor woman poet, I repeat thoughts in verse after verse
He conjures new sparks from his store of mansplaining
He ridicules my voice–why passive, for God’s sake!
In the assertive active lies his roar of mansplaining
He knows my intent, my ire, and why I err
I tire him often with the chore of mansplaining
Even in sleep he wants the best for me
I must sit and interpret his snore of mansplaining
Each day he narrates anew how he serves my good
In a different genre, the same lore of mansplaining
I am complicated, he is straight
To straighten me is his core of mansplaining
From tea to terza rima, each subject is his bride
I envy none but his whore of mansplaining
He wants to twist my qaafiya, hammer my radeef
To advance at my expense his score of mansplaining
He might have made, dear Reader, a Ghalib out of her
But Basudhara blocked his number, his bore of mansplaining.
Basudhara Roy teaches English at Karim City College and writes, edits, reviews, and
translates poetry from Jamshedpur, India.
