The wet history of my blood

the second monsoon

Résumé of rain; a daughter waits

for her gifts at the end; you call her

to come out, to have lunch; remind her

that it is too early for the dusk.

Inside her room with the seeds of teenage,

she is pressed against panes. Flashes, raindrops.

Moment burns like that lightning struck tree.

An event of returning, a flight

of a pigeon; one waits; the other hopes.

The gray cat under the garage shade

has a feather stuck on its mouth.

Screams the girl; the daughter. The wind chimes

madly ring and ring all afternoon;

mother’s embrace squeezes the scared one

for all afternoon. Rain recommences.

Pa is returning from the lost days.

=© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)

Historyof myblood

(To Lewis)

Every history has bloodstains. He says.

Every blood drop has its own history.

Vise versa.

Waking up walk to the east-window;

a naive bud has bloomed on the cactus

in the china pot kept on the sill.

Red are the outer petals, pale pink

inside; like a scene of birth. Blood. Flesh.

Imagine what history it may have;

imagine a blood-drop on the soil.

Vise versa.

History is washing hands; taking bath;

the red stream is flowing out, flowing

down the gutter. It shaves off the night.

Blood. Flesh. Bed sheet. Every moment has

red blood which flows and keeps it breathing.

=© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is absolutely prohibited, without permission)