The sleeper cells of the colours
awaken. Every Spring, it seems,
my uncle returns from the rehub,
or perchance, whenever he does
it is spring. It is green in
the thorn bush outside the window
of the room cleaned and readied
again for him. The moon shows
half of its half. My grandmother
conjures her husband in the grains
of an old photograph. Hope is
good tears. Hope is a long sigh.
A burst of bougainvillea sends
a shockwave of red in the sky.
This time is the last good time.
Spring. He returns. Again.
*
The Food
When the guests leave her body
reminds her that she hasn’t cooked
today, and she has nothing
in the account to order online.
She browses the pantry. Nothing
and nothing.
The man she married still breathes
hard and harder in between, lying
on the same side she laid him on the bed.
The light runs on the other side.
Are you hungry? She asks.
The looking glass turns dark.
The man groans. The guests should have
brought something. Who visits
someone sick and doesn’t bring oranges?
A bird calls the rain. The tweet
sounds liquid, long and desperate.
.
Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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