You arrive late. Already I have
a plaque for bravery and a heart
of a coward. You arrive with
a cookie box of hope that one
buys because he needs to get rid
of the scout. Already I have a secret city,
that wasn’t built and wasn’t bombed.
I told you about the unburnt calendar
that sways on to a deformed wall.
You arrive. You build walls, personalised
the wallpapers, virtual calendars.
Late, I see the dark of the light in dreams,
dreams wakeful, stay awakened all the while.
The One Side of The Two
Near the darkest hour your mother
descends the service staircase
that whirls by the side of the building
with its ribcage open. She wears
your daughter’s school uniform.
You hurry, catch her, shake her, tell
her to emerge from this oneiric teenage.
She says, “Two people never remains
the same after they kiss. It is
the quantum of existence.”
“There, there.” You say. The insects
form a halo around the glow
of the streetlights. Your father is
an unimaginable speed now. He spreads,
and you can see only those things he shows.
Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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