Hiroshima Bees Left Me | Kushal Poddar

Hiroshima Tree

Behind us, one tree flares up
a second-hand memory of Hiroshima.
Behind us, one solitary tree is Hiroshima, the blast-moment city.
We break our breads, sweet, too dolce,
with a promise of the cherries on top
in the middle, but not quite the real ones.
We suck those sugar-glazed red globes.
We have inherited the faux world,
and we feed the bird because life 
feels like a taut skin at any moment
it can be singed, peeled away. 
We should kiss—we think together.
The air in between us plays a refrain.
The notes scattered all over the park
to the applause of the pigeons.
One moment they are here; in the next not.

Bees

Without the bees 
the world as we know it 
will be stung to nullity. 

I tell my daughter.
Her hand guards her eyes
as the buzz flares in

its sun-like buzz
spiking the ovulating breeze.

Music Left Me

The butter knife I strike against
the dish and the plate with
a soggy biscuit
spills some music.

The newspaper states that there
should be no note left
in my head.
The flash is—the music

has been last seen standing
holding the mast of a bridge
the authority forgot to build.

©2022 Kushal Poddar
All rights reserved



Kushal Poddar…

…an author, journalist, father, and editor of ‘Words Surfacing’, authored eight books, the latest being Postmarked Quarantine. His works have been translated into eleven languages.


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