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  • Purbasha Roy

Three Poems

1. Dynamic

Morning every hibiscus stem was bearing

blooms. I squinted eyes and turned them

into little red stars. A specific glow in their

perimeter excused themselves from any

metaphor. I loved them the way beauty is

by someone who believes it is flexible like

doors. Sharp as love. Like a horse leaping

beyond a ranch fence. How easy they moved

in the tiny wind. The following day I see the

blooms withered, drooping down the stems.

Something I imagined as stars journeyed

through a time tunnel. Became heavy to stay

static between petite air. How between life flatness

we hold off devotion for small moments whose

cores are made of dynamic wheels' enthusiasm.


2. Lived Lifetime

At the edges of a lived lifetime

we met unlived like a wanderlust

who lost maps at journey middle

World shifts each moment. So did

we. When our vases broke, we were

out of our houses. Our addresses

different as mascara and nail paint.

I remember the wind had colors of

burnt sandwich and abandoned nest

at the window sill. Everything was

between bitterness and foot mat. The

way I did before house lights slept

along us. Before I reached threshold

like a struggling answer. Some absences

Wade through misfortunes and time's

obediences before it. I carried a light

and honey on my back. Which I

believed are true things this cosmos

makes goodly in a good mood. My

arms loosening the burden like sticky

mud from a nudged shovel. See him walk

away like a flirtation that finds difficult

to grow roots, in a small field surviving

with a charm for its faith in the process.

The drought drawing lines upon it as art.


3. Only once

Only once I asked don't you still

feel love for me. You kept silence

on your tongue the way a land keeps

something of geography. I have these

hands and they want to knock on the

door of your house. The clouds hanging

above have always been a reflection thing

of namelessness. The vase for which you

never gather spring is a humorless poetry

in wait for someone to read. This is like a

moonshaft pressed to an ebb of your psyche.

Won't you let me in. Your stares undefeated

on my face, make the sound of words not-

revealed, not-spoken. What to understand

of a letter inside a closed envelope. I was

told unspoken sorrows become rain. Was

it a dream I saw a tear drop drop on your

collar. Is this how a bulb dims to a coldness.

The evening that aspires to come inside sits

on the window. What grief. Why not to work

a thing that was once alive the way a desolate

nest means it was once built until an unbelonging

filled it thick. A blue metaphor steering the floors.


 
Purbasha Roy is a writer from Jharkhand, India. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Mascara Literary Review Channel, SUSPECT, Space and Time Magazine, Strange Horizons, Acta Victoriana, Pulp Literary Review, and elsewhere. She earned second place in the eighth Singapore Poetry Contest and is a Best of the Net Nominee.



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