The rain holds its breathes. My
mother, because no device to call
a person traveling from point A to point B
yet, holds her hands together, whispers
in the ears in those dark furred clouds,
“Let him arrive.” “Let him reach the home.”
I do. We all release that pour, that sigh my
dreams pass through the pores in my chest.
Our car rubs the trouser legs, the door,
and when a djinn appears we have nothing
more to desire, have no fancy, craving.
The Continents Lunch Together
I want to tell my friend about
the white sliver of teenage flesh of a fish
hanging between his teeth, but instead
complain about the staleness of the chips.
“A penny for your thought.” He says.
“Remember, our that friend who had
a colonial coin hanging from a string
that wrappedhis waist? His mother thought
it would bring good luck.”
“Where is he now?” He asks. “Between
two continents.” I sigh, want to tell him
about the sharp knives water keeps,
the blue plastic shades for the refugees,
but It is not our conversation.
There are bits of those waves between
his teeth, but it is not our coversation.
.
Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
- Find and follow me
- @amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
- Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
- Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
.