The vine of sleep climbs up
my wintry tree. You always highlight
something obvious, perhaps say,
“Your winter’s landscape is yours,
quite different from mine.” As if
those are real.
War has slowed down a bit, albeit
the fire smolders on, and the haze
of smoke and mist rubs away lucidity.
My skin disappears in the white.
I would have texted you an epiphany
without any context, ‘No amount
of knowledge will enlighten you
until you affirm that given another birth
you wouldn’t change a single thing of this one.’
but I slip into another conversation, one
with my mother about how to bake
a rich plum cake without the riches
and in a pressure cooker. Winter blossoms.
The fragrance is both alive and dead.
Fumbling
Now that we’re here, a little far
from the hem of the city,
what should we do, Darkness?
In the abundance of empty plain
one rejected tin handcart
a dead street sweeper was allotted
to bears the rubbed off reflection
of moon. Every blade of grass
would look clean had I been able to see
anything other than you fumbling
for notions, motion, act and abstinence.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
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