Peace blooms a complex flower; its petals rivulet in this light; I shiver in its impossible implosion. Something I lost becomes almost a grief, albeit not quite. Not quite a whispering, and yet when you propose availing the blossom, say, "Let's use the peacetime, piece together the pieces our bodies are." my ears giggle at your bad pun. The flower, if I play 'love/love-me-not' with, yields a set of inconclusive results as if we shall never know any better.
The Peacetime in Between
I try my hands at calligraphy. The letters grow wings, and some—a garden to sing in. The expectations of a letter hits a high note as they say, 'The net is restored'. Yet, not a single mail, and I close my eyes to envision some bodies morphed into pebbles on a foreign road. The journey of the refugees looks like a hyphen lettered with a stub nib.
The Drums Listen to Us
Evening beats a drum in the forest temple. Everyday. I never see any devotee. Now I have nothing more to do at the shop, I pull down the shutters, go home, eat alone, watch a movie until sleep dawns on me, and some time after the midnight one feline with eight scratched-off lives leaps into the room. The windows are still and sealed. Naked and in tight corsets. I try to recall the age of the ceasefire. The ethnic drums beat miles afar. I have lone hands. I think. The milk has outrun its longevity. I have nothing to do here, or there. Now in peace or then during the war.
©2022 Kushal Poddar
All rights reserved
…is an author and a father, editor of Words Surfacing, and author of eight books, the latest being Postmarked Quarantine. His works have been translated in eleven languages.