When I Was young the hospitals
had two shades of teal. We
waited for my mother to heal
not really beleving in that miracle.
Religion made a box house outside,
under the banyan tree. I remember
staring at the sky; it used to be
more free, but blue was not my hue.
A Wheelchair, an oxygen cylinder,
and her whimpering in my ear,
“I cannot breathe.” had teal linings.
Two shades of it.
Water
When the ant reach the fissure
on the stone it holds a door open
for me. I cannot see the door.
It waits. Then it is not there. With it
the door too disappears. My mother
used to say it rains when the ants
open their doors. I wait for the cold.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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