Poetry: Amit Parmessur

Amit Parmessur

Murderer

I get a white Oscar for Diwali

from the old bubbly Alain Aquapet.

A river dog I can hand-feed, I feel.

Once in the tank though, it either chases

the rest round the bonsai tree or mouses

behind the boat. One is cut into two.

One jumps to its death. Others just vanish.

I have kept a cold-blooded criminal.

Our patience snaps for Easter. I put it

in a zipper bag with the red water,

ride to the river wild with recent rain.

I let it go. Gently. It stays still, wags

its tail, inches forward and disappears.

I get up, scan the current—and regret.

***

Java plum tree

Seven years ago, we helped the

old man plant it in a moment

of innocence. Since the blemish

of experience drooled on us,

we had forgotten it, only

to come back to taste purple joy.

***

The Red Tomato

hangs from its claws against the open sky.

This wee sun cocooning the next rays

in its soft pulp has faced a stormy childhood;

its taut skin, its rivulets of stretch marks

speak of whipping, of blood shed as

the foundation of the future. Its perfect

roundness tells the tale of how what

we have is built on moons of silent sorrow.

Its weight bending its branch is a sign,

a warning that this yolk can be lost tomorrow

if it’s not valued today. Each day soaks

its brightness up and waits for the drop.

I understand that I have to protect it, or

some green-eyed pigeon’s beak might

break into this juicy snowball and dismantle

the shrub to build its nest. It can’t go

down a wandering throat and never come

back like the dodo; other globes have to

sprout and grow and bud against this open sky.

***

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, February 2023