Half Past Eleven
Much like a burnt-out farmer flumping down
upon his ache-allaying, tender bed
past toiling in the unforgiving sun,
Ma does the same when stove-led tasks are done,
heat-pillaged, sapped, and flabby at the head,
with arms full splayed. Throughout her cotton gown,
faint rings of sweat hint at her daily grind.
As miners are to stuffy, dingy blocks
replete with sulphur odour, grit, and smoke,
she’s to a furnace-like, crammed space designed
to hold her all day long—a narrow box
whose ever-fuming spices tend to choke.
Toggling between half wakefulness and sleep,
she mumbles praises for the cooling fan,
says bedtime is the greatest gift to man,
and bids the coming morning stay retired,
almost inaudibly; her lips grow tired
and then, no sound, but long breaths slow and deep.
Shamik Banerjee is a poet from Assam, India. His recent publications include Modern Reformation, The Society of Classical Poets, and Thimble, among others.