The Secret Pandemic


“We never prattle on
the other pandemic,”
says the widow.

I raise a toast to the spirit,
her husband, 
and swill down the image –
he with his gun
inserted into his mouth
moments before his brain
dye the wall.
The art of dying makes me
see an abstract of a house shrew
searching for food in garbage.
I raise a second toast.

The secret pandemic.
I have another friend fallen from life.
I excused myself from his wake.
The year browns outside, not over yet.
The ground hides its hide beneath 
the pelt of green, 
far too long I haven’t trampled the yard.
The road elongates the emptiness 
I am afraid I shall miss 
when people inhabits the asphalt again.
“Too soon, quarantine,” I murmur,
“Don’t end yet. Pandemic is alive.”





Kushal Poddar
Photo Nick Victor

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