I have forgotten the number of lanes
that lead to the pink house;
I had marked the street lamps
with pins on my palm,
but the scars dried too soon
and the last of them vanished last night.
This whole fracas against form and freedom
was actually a race against a decadent cliff
that we used to jump off,
every time we went to the sea.
Every time, the coral reefs pierced our hands and feet
and that beautiful blood
fought for its birth into existence
amidst a Sagittarian travesty.
Cords were on display at the chemists’
and youth was languishing behind the panes.
They always insisted on good manners,
but that was the cleverest trick,
until the archer himself came.
Much mischief had passed
since the disappearance of colors;
much silk had been woven,
much wine had been brewed;
but when the scab-masked marched
on to the small town’s pride,
even icebergs refused to play the shield game.
You can’t read about the rest of the fix,
because ink became too expensive then.
She nailed her mother’s photo
to the freshly painted wall
and waited for the tenant-to-be.
While the clock
made obscene sounds around her neuroglia,
she washed her hands with Dettol.
Based in Mumbai, India, Twish Mukherjee is a digital video producer juggling between keyboards and keyholes. He writes poetry when scripts become too suffocating.
Post a Comment