“Making A lake”
A will to live
A will to die
Give me either
And I shall cry
No more.
How many white nights
Shall I spend
With my wounded body
On these salt flats?
Give me anything
A sigh
A whisper,
We can’t grow blue lobelias
Around my lake.
“yolk”
Holding his body close together
Into a hug
Eternal cold
Of his rain-some being
He walks up to her
She looked at him from her darkness
Eyes-
A pair of old slits
On a chalky wrist.
“The Hills are alive”
I am capable of so much bereavement
So much separation
I must fall in love again and again
Cross the tickle
Reach jouissance
I
A woman
I eat mountain mushrooms
And touch daisies
I cook what ever I treasure in
This moment
A ravine between my breasts
Bourbon coaxes
Subdued fire
Smokey sighs of camphor
In a ritual
Of diminished majors
And forgetfulness
As the citylights upturn the sky
You float among the stars then
A naïve boy,
Alone,
By Chagall.
Illustration : Arunima Chowdhury