Rain-ordered Snacks
Some pre-rain ants forge on ahead.
One constant chirping accentuates
the cat in heat.
The inevitable drowning sits
on the ledge of the nearby barrage,
its eyes fixed on its palms,
thoughts dwelling on the reality TV
mother used to snort all day long
until it discontinued the subscription.
I can close the window now
but cannot avoid the wetness.
Will you peel off my rain-soaked white
shirt that stays vigilant at the border
between our skin?
The Red Almost Cherries
Between our kitchen and the neighbor’s
sway the julienned tree of privacy
veiling and unveiling the secret recipes
of the family anger, love, grief.
Today the boughs bear a fistful of red almost cherries –
not the real ones because it is not a cherry tree.
I open the north window and extend my arm.
My neighbor’s hand brushes mine, and
for one jiffy there exists one universe,
one language – that of the wind rustling
and the red blinks of the sweet union between
the known and the unknown. Then the world’s part.
It Can Be Used Another Time
A woman stumbles out from
her full bathtub, dials emergency
and calls off an insincere suicide.
Two bees, lost and asleep, sit
on her bedroom curtains veiling
half a pane – their long search
for tulips, perhaps, has ended
in rusting on a formless wreath.
The slow siren burner scurries
past her neighborhood.
I fold and hide her note,
“No one is responsible.”
Another Night
On your collars some patches of blood
screams the secrets they won’t reveal.
Dern their attention-seeking! I think
you have been to our nine-fingers butcher,
but those bear the marks of something dire,
do not they?
I ask you if we need to call in the authority,
if we need to light up a fire in our backyard
and gaze at the blood vaporize, fabric burn,
smoke signals trigger an untimely rain.
You say nothing. You, perchance, remember
no incident. Nothing severe. I should boil
some water, begin a supper and sleep another night.
©2021 Kushal Poddar All rights reserved.
An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, edited a magazine – ‘Words Surfacing’, authored eight volumes including ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals‘, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems‘ and ‘Postmarked Quarantine‘. His works have been translated into eleven languages.