Poetry: Purbasha Roy

Purbasha Roy
1. August

I wanted to choose for you an august
that has a window of crimsomeness. This 
thinking is not about sunsets but the beginning
of your breaths' spectrum. Inside it a faint music
in its remorselessness parallel the light rain tiptoe
on the roofs. Smell rising from a sentence with
buried grace beneath is like the touch of rose on
the child's palm selling blooms on traffic signals. After
I choose hidden fruit of love from an unyielded garden 
of hurting and grief, I see honey sprout from your 
undiminished absence. It is still a week for time to shoo
away august close to a fire that I can't describe with 
accuracy of geography. For fires can be built only 
after something accepts end. Before I can take an 
august out of a year, we were say coziest like bee-pair
inside a night lotus. We intertwined giving in to this 
kind of softness like hunger. How in suddenness, some
thing in me emerges as a ship and you mounted on it 
busy knitting september from a prism of myth. Now, 
the evening sucks day alongside syllables of cloud-wings
***


2. Edges

Last night I dreamed you came over and stayed-Kim Addonizio

I was told you shouldn't want something beyond
their edges. So, what do I desire from surplusness 
of this world. Once I had wanted you close enough 
to feel again breaths of dew on your body. We laid 
as bags on grass. The stars shine thin through the 
mist. Like the sparse pond water in summers, pins
nothing about life. This is just an explanation for 
why I read arithmetic of air that tends to teach me
signs to hold most of you while you stay beyond my
holdness. For air excels in projects as these: smells, 
magic of citylines; forestlines etc. I over-rehearse what
I desire like the pigeon warming eggs.  As far as possible
stays a word obsessed to lifeside of things. I would clutch
your reflections and shadows that turns to a coin abrasing
destiny's scratch card in hope of getting your name revealed
***


3.After you

the terracotta night opened like a wound. Outcome 
of a breaking, somedays is tender. Mind speculates
what is in the emergence. My appetite for your sounds
stretched as telephone wire and reached somewhere
from where it lost it's way back. I wish someday this
lostlessness boldly claims me. In a naming ceremony
I was called to suggest a baby's name. Suddenly, I felt 
language has a thing for me. What is the metaphor for
a summering lake. Ripples in their reknitting. From
 constellation of names, I could only utter half of 
yours. As if a hidden enchantment stays unshifted like 
the ancient country river still in its not-much-unaligned
course. This makes me realize loneliness is a gold lamp 
kept in an open courtyard that interests no burglar. That
day, someone said everything can't be given in alms. 
Say, [       ]...
***


Bio: She is a writer from Jharkhand India. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Mascara Literary Review Channel, SUSPECT, Space and Time magazine, Strange Horizons, Acta Victoriana, Pulp Literary Review and elsewhere. Attained second position in 8th Singapore Poetry Contest. Best of the Net Nominee.

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