Everything reminds me:
you wrote me from a warring country,
wrote that mine too is burning.
Everything, even the tips of the trees
proud with those flaming flowers,
says, “We are merely trying to
survive, multiply and immigrate.”
Between the Minto Park and The Station
The handle I hold with all my might
swings my mind back to the playground
where my young body is stuck in the thrill,
and the worn out swing set brings
both the sky between two sets of leaves
and the ground covered by yellow and white
of narcissus. The bus hits a pothole.
A woman in hijab falls on me and steadies
herself mumbling an apology. Three o’clock
Sun rides a Vespa. Its skin bears the burnt
of its self. I swing, swing between two plains
of time. Our carrier leaves the Sun behind.
Now we are free of the limit of the speed.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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