Mirrorground
Fair Narcissus
(To
Steve Sassmann)
In
the funhouse mirror, stuck
in
those infinite births,
I
see the distortions of me.
Fairground
grass eats my ankles,
so
do
the
ice follies and other narcissus.
I
touch the glass; it gurgles, streams
a
river of whisky;
under
his distilled breath the ticket man
says
that I can cross it
but
for that charges will be extra.
This
year too, I may not dare.
The Village In The Shadow of A Windmill
The
constant circle of the windmill
makes
the goats' eyes eerie.
Those
belong to the serpents. To the angels.
My
ex-workman uncle slips into sleep
in
this laid off land. The windmill
irrigates
the fields filled with the creepers.
The
squeaks and whooshes stream over and in between.
The
goats refill their mouth.
Sleep
reloads its magazine, and I pick up
the
pieces of my uncle.
Everytime
someone says 'soul' I cringe.
Look
Up Syndrome
Someplace
else belongs to the rain.
I
look up at the sky and it says,
"Face
the wall."
I
have been thinking about the moment of end.
"Don't
wander near the river, blaze, subway tracks
or a
bottle of pills prescribed for a cure."
I
hear my mother, rest-in-peace.
"There
is a cure" I murmur, look up again
until
the Sun blinds me, binds my sight in
some
bubbles. This Spring I have been
thinking
about the wall, firing squad,
holes,
not just the rivers, inferno, rails or pills.
I
look up again, try hard to imagine a cloud
that
will be my childhood pet at first and then
take a piss on me.
Kushal
Poddar, the author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He
is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have
been translated into twelve languages.
Twitter-
https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
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