It’s not always the same man knocking

coaxing with kind English or high-pitch

testing the lock with a shoulder, a knife

the knock turns into bang

to Hindi outrage with thrust

the door becomes compromised

shifts towards their effort.

I have the company of four stained walls

Shiva is hanging lopsided

the bed, the floor, the heat say:

this is your room service.

I search for the branch from the Jamun tree

use my shaver to sharpen its tip

stand still as my heart sobs, screams

I am thankful for the bars across the window

I am thankful for no balcony

I beg the door to hold its stance

as I stand, I am statue of myth or legend

holding the branch like the upward sword

held by Maroula of Lemnos

who won the attack

despite the army of men

barging through doors

to rape her island.