by Purbasha Roy
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When I look at shadows, I think of their
silence. The mountain shadow's: centuries
wordlessness. The young corn sapling's: two
days mum. My own body's age-equivalent:
heaped quiet. What does it mean to have a
story but no words. To feel ache and expression
of it are two poles of this earth. Sometimes, a
sunshaft dapple on the wall seems to have
remodeled itself. I have you by my side to
tell this. You don't, for you're schooled in the
rhyme language. That day, to hide tears
from this world I enveloped my face with
upraised palms. The waves rushed. Left me
salty, damp from my hair to toe. My tears given
to the sea become part of something whose
dreams are mysteries in themselves. I desired
enter talks with the sea. All I understood it is
vocabulary of a house that wakes to loneliness
each dawn. Sun throbbing on its closed doors.
How to share about an encounter whose language
is stolen like thread from sewing machine. I ache
from a wound casting echoes of a storm-swept
street. How it is still not oblivious about the
sorrows. In the first poem ever written about
ruinations, what metaphor was used for a silence
that knived through it until left was a nameless
hueless dream lost to splits by sleep jerks. Why
does every tale of healing ends with ellipses
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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.