We follow a probable cause.
The door opens to a corrodor of darkness,
the screaming staircase. I stare up, see
my own feet near the roof. “Nothing is
down here.” Whispers my partner.
I tell her that nothing is up there as well.
We searched the space that embodies nowhere.
A cat rubs its electricity against our legs.
A constant ring hints at a telephone,
a person missing another. If we search we
shall find the one who fell, guess who’s
the perpetrator, and both sides are us, all,
the way the upstairs is the down, down is up,
and the bodies hold the bodies in its void.
Riverside Myths
A moaning pigeon kind of morning.
Regime has changed. I know
I need to bury my bunny or learn
taxidermy in an hour. You decide,
we should make a paper boat and tell it
to weigh its anchor, to sail toward the silence.
The pier sits still with the body
of the stream on lap. The screams
have left sediments on the steps.
I skid, slide, stand with all of me matted in mud.
I try eaching out for your hand, but you are
on the other side of the river.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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