Dayclose
An ill-willed summer is not leaving us any time soon
You like your land slipping into a desert scalp, bruised in
peel off whatever stands between you- the poser and the preacher
Even the flight of the cattle egret I have seen, irks you.
White cottony wings, sharp yellow beaks and its’ free rise and fall,
rise and fall.
I thought may be both of us could fine tune
songs of ache, one from your fence, one from mine
when you braid my hair, tail-like; you and I become siblings
melting in each other’s want to belong and at times unbelong
russet burly skyline: the broad canvas .
Between the clumsy pleats of your hand-woven saree, grace with her portfolio
diaphanous walks
tick tocking through the floors wiped every few minutes
holding a bouquet in my arms in-house
recluse of sort, I peer the urban you,
rise and not fall.
Wonder if only I could with such malleability
tend to the dark clutches of cloud to come together
in your piece of land you, let out on lease
and
in our sing song manner
on every dayclose
scrub the lies and truths,
and all that comes to us as troubled times,
salvage the scraps
in the soundless, mixed salad days
spread of thoughts
simply sweating out in queue.
Purabi Bhattacharya lives and writes in Gujarat. Originally from Shillong, India she couldn’t get far away from her birthplace. She is the author of Call Me a collection of poems ( Writer’s Workshop, 2015), her works can be read in Muse India, Hans India, Tuck magazine, Spark Magazine, p4poetry and other print journals mostly published from India.