Wishes Too, Are Protests
On the day following the National Military Pride Day, the dead men and women reincarnate, some as the crows on the yellow painted barricades, and some as scavengers cleaning the meat they were, but that day, when the tanks and bayonets march like strange phallus cairns from a tribe soon some other will replace, they have more than flesh on their piths – those dreams and dreads unfulfilled they carried are reborn too. Beware of those. Billows whisper.
Spring Morning, 2021
The morning sun, if you play with words and whisper with still-life lips, 'Golden shower.' swishes through your arm hair, and inside, an unreal siren shrieks and squeals - Tide is coming albeit, too late, you wreck and sink. I hold you, also feeling erotic. Morning, and yet the cats caterwaul. Either they're mating or have seen what no mortal should see. Below, in our weeds bed, dandelions burst like suicide bombers. Someone sneezes in our plain.
On the unfading pillow we lie; hands, my hands, now bark at the night spread across the walls of this room; my daughter holds the torch; now my hands fly to join the folk it will miss - it always will. What should my hands do? My daughter moulds those into the rugged back of a crocodile, and or time that devours the mountains, or the mountains that swells out of the sea depths.
Full Moon, Springtime 2021
The reflection of the moon at its peak looks like a before & after photography, not a pair of fake shots used for selling something, but one real you stumble upon in a spring cleaning. The water seems more smoke and less mirror one moment, and more mirror and less smoke the next. Anyway, you would have thought the scene fake, and yet loved to show the same to your best friend. You cannot do so in this virus outbreak, but that doesn’t explain why you do not call him, why sometimes coming out and staring at the lake is the only thing you do other than washing hands.
©2021 Kushal Poddar
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