The house feels a discomfort and
leaves the dinner alone halfway.
Inside I wriggle, still a disagreeing
fiber, still undigested.
Rain shells the roof. The explosion
makes the house groan.
The grey-blue fire engulfs
the cornices, curtains and the panes.
Inside I murmur to my mother’s bones.
They can convey only one phrase
through the silent beats and vibration,
“Did you eat today, son?”
Her remnants repeats it to answer
my queries, asks everything with it.
The house decides to stroll when
the rain ebbs away. I am bloating
its belly. The rectangle walks
through the alley of the dark stars
and holes. A constellation that
looks like a dog barks at its edifice.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
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