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.
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
…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.