The old woman, all teeth, bares
their health, and mouths the word,
‘crazy’ between the bites.
The meat looks perfect, her husband pale.
He sounds insane too when
he claims to be alive. We stand and sit,
already late. The food can be
tagged as leftovers. The guests have left,
are leaving making space
for the entering absence.
Rosa Parks Rides Again
She smells the creased, wrinkled seats,
hides, white sweat beads. She
smells the masks every other riders
wear and hide half of their florid faces.
The ride speeds right through the mid city,
mad city and skirts the society.
Rosa Parks rides again. The fireworks
scatter every way leaving a dark centre.
The lights in the bus digs for the pulse.
The silence shouts, “Go back to your pen.”
The lady holds her backpack.
Rosa Parks rides again.
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Kushal Poddar
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