The savor of the olive oil streaks the air.
Quite noisy, quiet dark, here begins
the backyard and here it ends.
We are still in the backyard.
The Waiter show us the stairs.
They trick a lodging to appear
from nowhere. Switch on a decanter
of light. Darkness runs on the wet rag.
Everything is determined to tell a story,
but the story is not here. A tiny event,
seismic, shifts the dust. It is continuous.
Says the waiter and waits for his tips.
Two News
A coincidence, the confirmation
of his death comes to his mother
on the day the ceasefire was confirmed
by two sets of suited men.
The bell rings quite few times
before the woman wearing a colour
so close to white that it has lost its name
opens the door. The forgotten swing set
in the garden, dead, begins to rise and fall.
A dog digs out a soiled yellow ball.
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Picture and words
Kushal Poddar
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