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.
Bees
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.
White Reverie
In the white reverie of this weeds’ field on a sunless day
we roll together. The act of love is grass-bottom here. The act of love sins, gently releases thin petals in the air.
One yelping dog stares from his ninety nine degrees angles.
An author, journalist and a father, Kushal Poddar, editor of ‘Words Surfacing’, authored eight books, the latest being ‘Postmarked Quarantine’. His works have been translated into eleven languages.