Everything Onion Skin


Imagine No One as a person.
No One called you. You answered 
to No One. The graffiti on a wall
screams at you as you pass the brick lane,
“You are No One!”
Passive aggressive, it may be, albeit 
it transmogrify the wall, brick by brick,
atom by atom. It 
smoothens your reflection. You called 
yourself. You should have answered 
your, “Please, take care.” with a nod 
with a sob, with a silent gaze at 
the black cat hauling its shadow by its neck.


Everything, onion skin
in this sunshine
and flying, taken by the random wind,
doesn’t swirl around you even if
you stand with your hands ajar
and showing a glimpse of your chest.

No one observes you. No one
watches you as you traverse, walks,
stalks you. The other day no one stood
on the pavement opposite,
shook you a bit. No one is there
under the portico. The other day
a call came. No one called you.
You should have answered and said, “No”.
This noon is his back alley, his bastion.
This hour is his snowglobe,
and you stand fixed inside, at the centre
the way you desire – all
the attention and none.





Kushal Poddar
 Nick Victor


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