Poetry: Amit Parmessur

Amit Parmessur

The Neem Tree

Above the untrimmed hedge over there,

the neem tree is shrinking. It’s devoid of its puffs

of white flowers, of its honey-like scent.

We shared its shade with many bees, remember?

The rope that tied us is now a matador unable to fight

anymore. It’s like a string of rotten pearls

shrouded in sorrow, like a rose unwilling to give

her perfume to a fickle man.

As I meander in the exhausted garden, your

whispers disturb the wind-beaten shadows around.

The neem leaves lie so dead.

Even your Shitala won’t come on her donkey now,

holding her broom and pot of cold water to protect us,

to let us share the shade with the bees.

One neem leaf beside me on the bench

has the hole that took you away.

It’s as morose as the lightning searching its body.

It’s where I lost myself too, crying, tortured,

unable to fight anymore. We shared a bond,

grandmother, but we won’t share this new house.

***

Machiavellian

Master of reverse psychology, like

the cigarette box saying Smoking kills,

she is a bony Sisyphus who has

a mountain of boulders on a mountain.

She buys and sells everyone but doesn’t have

a price herself. She has long scissors for

each close, healthy relationship you have.

As she moves from person to person, so

do the commas in her sentences. Her

dirty stalk cozens the fertile gloom from

the night and carries it into your mouth.

She carves frail heels out of your fit knees, turns

your eyes into hers. Maybe one day she’ll

see sorrow—and how costly it can be.

***

Going Out

The clothes look bored on

the line. She decides to give

them wide hips, thick thighs,

big-butt confidence, firm breasts,

and a smile. She is a pear.

The jewels lie on

the table, mute. They were for

her mother. Now her

babies, they soon cover the

noisy landscape of her scars.

The sandals sleep, boxed

like love letters of exes.

They were first pictures,

then hers with a few clicks. She

makes them carry her thrilled frame.

The hat sits like a

solemn cake in the closet.

Once she wears it, she

could sing and dance all day on

the president’s tomb and go

scot-free. The lipsticks

stand erect in the holder.

She applies some blood

on her lips and is ready

to kill with her breath and glance.

She sticks decor on

the walls of her fingers to

hide the hate names. Thumb

and finger equally graced,

they shine and wink like cat’s eyes.

She goes down the stairs.

The door creaks. She fades into

the night. She gets raped.

***

Bipolar

Short permanence. Like dewdrops on roses,

I swap wintry and heated hours in spring.

I’m a fresh sky of fireflies near fake suns.

A baked elephant on wet paper legs,

I kill the bud and wait for the flower.

I’m a piranha afraid of quokkas.

I lose time in myself, myself in time.

Rotting like an egg with a two-faced yolk,

I’m made of glass but can cut a dagger.

A broken lighter that you flick and flick

to get a spark, I make mistakes and the

mistakes make me. Sometimes, my eyes open

me; I’m a flat, dry tornado and a

vertical horizon of angst... just me.

***

Bio: Amit Parmessur, 39, is from Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius. He spent his adolescence hating poetry before falling in love with its beauty. His poems have appeared in several online magazines, namely The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal. He is a two-time Pushcart Prize and two-time Best of the Web nominee.

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Setu, December 2022