The scalpel of the conversation
cuts open the blood swollen old brain.
Your hands lift the new born nightmare.
It remains silent. It remains still.
You begin crying.
You are young. Although you know
the man to be wrong you will follow
one or two lessons learnt through him.
He doesn’t know that otherwise
he would have tried to comment carefully.
You learn – love means tough control,
feeling the weight of guilt because you
are not a dom, and love means burning
the letters, turning their alphabets
into hot and white metal, and marking
one’s own self with them.
When The Rain Ebbs
When the rain ebbs away
sadness begins chirping.
One in the beginning,
and then two, and when
more join in I lose count.
I wander without
a splash of water on my face,
wearing the dream’s stickiness
and rheum around my eyes.
I desire to converse with sadness,
but can only cage it in my brain.
Marilyn
I stop on time. Those shells are
the remnants of another hemisphere.
I lift my eyes as if the exotic bird
will be a steady fixture, a feature
of the cloudless city.
Yesterday we wore blonde wigs.
You argued I looked more Marilyn
even with my uneven beard. I pluck
the jagged petals of the egg to show you.
I see you. Now. Yesterday. A blue bird
long gone. A body in a white dress.
I carry a cloudless day in a tiny
kitchen garden on my palms. A sourceless
sadness cures the hangover of happiness
so that they may sit on a grey couch
and drink again.
.
Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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