If Memory Were Bruce Wayne


My mother samples the tilth of the soil
before sowing her family jewels.
Half of the town is down under a spell
of rain; ours stand on a higher ground.

If you dwell in a dream for far too long
your gray cells begin to swell up with its details –
how rain falls nowhere near your mother
and how it cordons off everything from her 
existence and those pearls – now some seeds

for something silver. The blood and flesh
of the town’s nether part perfects the fertilizers,
spreads a bone meal. Meanings, meanings
leave minute prints across the garden.




Kushal Poddar

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India

 Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/ 
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

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