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by Purbasha Roy


From this world I hide my defeats. Like
a white note within a pink song. Come night,
I enter time-lapsed silhouettes of places where
stays my losses: the locked vowels of them still
in high tides. How see the young boys learn
balance of sleek sticks between open palms.
I wonder what they know about losing. That
a not-lost part of me is the color of a cloud
keeping a dense rain. That it is a medium I have
invented myself near a clotting. Is there any
surprise whatever happens to this body is just
the lateral evolve of something, from which time
has withdrawn its presence. Sometimes with this
world I have shared many things I had or have.
That to say I have blurred my smallness with tricks
I didn't know I possessed, until I put them to use.
My surrenders still standing in shivers, undressed.
Like an autumn leaf flutter clenched in the soil bed.
Below a tree between its popular red-bloom-time.

Purbasha is a writer from Jharkhand India. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Logic(s), Mascara Literary Review, Channel, SUSPECT, Space and Time magazine, Strange Horizons, Acta Victoriana, Pulp Literary Review and elsewhere. Attained second position in the 8th Singapore Poetry Contest. She is a Best of the Net Nominee.


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