Dark lulls itself to stillness.
One candle burns like a lazy
midwife, busy with its frail love life
and ration. She has been here;
she was at the time of birth; to her
forming one from nothing is no suprise,
albeit like everything ever dark
was not here, and then it was.
Morning smokes out the sleep
and sips the honey of the dreams.
A siren ends the night shift, and
the parents return. Dark is still, still
in its crib.
The Drama in Black, Blue and Red
I tell her that all my memories of fever
reenact in my past. They come in
the batches of four days, and their first
is in bokeh. In the other three my mother’s
face appears with luminous lines,
clearer features. It appears closer. It
smells of a broth. It smells like medicines,
metal spoon, Eau de cologne and cold
water. My father retains his full body.
He stands a little far, looks creased,
a confused letter. He never looked
any closer than that.
That distance is all I desire to close now.
I tell her. The thermometer shows
a number, the ceiling a shadow
drama we direct. Its script keeps changing.
.
Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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