The blade the pane throws in
shaves a square on the floor.
Morning tickles down my cheek,
Yes, boo? I turn, ouch,
where is the cotton?
How quick the floor heals.
Skin too. The red rolls
down the slow street. Ain't we
missing something boo?
I ask, or someone?
One by one you call our kin.
Luke died long ago.
We know only now.
Not him. Someone or
something left us. A space
remains inside, outside.
Boo, remember once
I scribbled 'Do you
still live here?' with toothpaste
on the toilet mirror?
Yes, you wrote yourself back.
Perhaps we should reverse
the question, pen it on
the clouds, 'We miss you.
What is your name?'
shaves a square on the floor.
Morning tickles down my cheek,
Yes, boo? I turn, ouch,
where is the cotton?
How quick the floor heals.
Skin too. The red rolls
down the slow street. Ain't we
missing something boo?
I ask, or someone?
One by one you call our kin.
Luke died long ago.
We know only now.
Not him. Someone or
something left us. A space
remains inside, outside.
Boo, remember once
I scribbled 'Do you
still live here?' with toothpaste
on the toilet mirror?
Yes, you wrote yourself back.
Perhaps we should reverse
the question, pen it on
the clouds, 'We miss you.
What is your name?'
Born in a warm corner of India, a lone child and brought up with his shadow mates, Kushal Poddar (1977- ) began writing verses at the age of six. He adopted his second tongue as the language to dream on. Widely published in several countries, prestigious anthologies included Men in the Company of Women, Penn International MK, etc. and he has been featured in various radio programs in Canada and USA. He has collaborated with photographers for an exhibition at Venice and with performers for several audio publications. You can buy his latest book here.