By
Ananya Chatterjee
Broken
“May I sleep now?
My words have lost their trails
The wind has abandoned my sails
I am a broken bough …”
Someday you shall find me though
Staring at you from the marble eyes
Of a wooden Pinocchio
Shivers will melt your skin
In the memory of
an ancient sin
You’d whipped your mind to forget-
How you had strangled a poet
And robbed the priceless quote
coughed up by his ruptured throat.
The Ride
For a fleeting moment
my eyes hold your fading stride-
the back of your head
bobbing up and down
amid a home-bound evening tide
of salaried men
And then a streetcar
jingles into my vision
I lose the cue
You’ve vanished
from that avenue
of rickety rickshaw pullers
and fatigued flower sellers
I loosen the strap of my helmet
and inhale the air
where your scent lingers
Decades later
my defunct scooter
will soothe my wrinkled memory
With tales of rushed goodbyes,
dripping urban nights,
and half-dreamed pillion rides.
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