The Bunny Bones
The rain plays the leaves, grass.
Noise sats so. Our skin swallows
the pour. We, two blinds, drunkard
because of one death and a separation,
stumble upon a skull I claim as
some rabbit's, pick it up, drop it.
The noise decorates the land
in the eggshells Raden. The rain fades.
Our footsteps crackle. Two eyes
burn the dark. From the height
we can say that it is a small beast.
We turn, see no skull. It returned
for the bones. I murmur.
Happy Easter weekend. You say
remembering the death
and how two worlds separate.
Who Told You About That Kind of Love
Her boyfriend sings a song
at the concert they drives in,
unplanned. His song lasts more
than those five minutes the band
plays it on the stage.
A jet drowns the noises, and then
the moon emerges through the chem trail.
Distance steals the speed and the craft.
"Say your prayers." He whispers.
Drums roll the prayers.
The morning next set for a breakfast
with me spreads an unending
newspaper. I run the knife across
a 'Why Not!' egg waiter brings in
while I wait. Patience flows
dark orange, almost red.
The Dark
After a while I see the pattern-
she apologizes, and
a lightning flash, muted behind
our thick panes, highlights
what dark keeps safe.
There rolls a purposeless wheel.
The tree that bends to survive
doesn't miss the beats.
One bird's flesh, hissing and burnt,
leaves its mark on the path.
The fragments of its nest we see
only for one jiffy, and then the sky darkens.
My sister says, "Sorry."
I turn my head towards the window.
My blood seeks the tilt on the floor.
The Story So Far
1.
They ask me if I may
help with a quick sketch
from my memory of the one
I trusted last time. I turn my head
as if someone stands
behind me, no one.
2.
The glass and gems
found on the floor all share
the origin, a mirror.
The fracture occurred long ago.
Now the investigators notice the shards.
3.
If they stare at them
even if they do not piece the puzzle
together the slivers and scraps
will mirror the face I trusted last.
4.
Lift the yellow tapes, unseal the lock,
enter in the beating heart.
The fledgling has left some water signs
on the polished mud yard.
The cardiac muscles display my tribal art.
One need not interpret, conclude,
if he harks the silence,
diastole and systole, and the call
of a mother bird.
Gently Bleed
to David Lewis
Your tangled fingers, matured guitar
that suffers from amnesia
and also stammers, and you star
the show stars don't show up
as the audience. The night rushes in
some clouds instead, and they
adore drums more, look bored
until you forget the minor, triad, power;
the capo drops somewhere in the dark,
and you begin to strum the crossroad
of life's curses and blessings.
The rain extinguishes the spotlight.
The percussionist although green,
makes up for their short lives with their zeal.
The distant hills running to see the city
again, halt here beside the smoke of the dead fire.
A guitarist, solo and wet, plays his life
with fingers whitened.
Kushal Poddar - The author of 'Postmarked Quarantine'
and 'How To Burn Memories Using a Pocket Torch' has nine books to his credit.
He is a journalist, father of a four-year-old, illustrator, and an editor. His
works have been translated into twelve languages and published across the
globe.
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
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