Little love note
I have in love
this is quite offbeat
than what happened much earlier.
It was coiled in words
between physics chapters
intertwined in the lessons on arc length,
Archimedes principles and first love.
Then love was breezy
it was never a wait for rains
it poured anyway.
It was never the cravings for sweet cold some things
they were there anyway.
This time round
no words peekaboo
the wait for washing away the summer
with a downpour draws out
it isn’t happening anytime soon, I am reminded.
I do not have an elaborate garden
to see if the butterflies visit the very little blooms
in my vertical one.
The flower pots are filled with cracked soil and
As i stumble upon the thought
a trickle of sweat
sogs the soil.
In an aflamed afternoon
i can smell… pickles
in the neighbourhood; peppered with nostalgia
roaming free, making its way
through the railings of our verandah
and i know this is not my grandmother’s recipe
but with all the craving
the romantic in willy nilly begins to scribble
a little love note, written to an untold lover.
Of late i have begun to hate nights. Raw baked nighttimes
when death comes calling
and beats a hasty retreat as it reached, just like ol’buttermilk sky
with promise, never pouring.
The owl pair stares at my nakedness. My hollowness digging burrow
growing inside, perambulating
in the wan hours.
A life later
i’d like to hoot…or still better
become them, with large pair of eyes
in waiting, ogle.
Purabi Bhattacharya is a writer from Shillong, India. Currently based in Gujarat, she has debuted with a collection of poems ‘Call me‘ published by Writers Workshop, India. She is on the panel of Muse India Book Review. Her poems have appeared mostly in print journals, anthologies published in India apart from contributing to some internet poetry portals including Tuck Magazine and Ink, Sweat and Tears.