Say, a hibiscus. Say, a dahlia. I’m paying attention to the stalk only now, earlier it was all about petals. I hear the crow sighing on an unbending branch, its teething beak, my winter’s onset. Why my spine slumps, why my tongue dries, I don’t know. But I do know despite being sick of the world, I still need it. Look at the chameleon sky wandering fenceless around our problems, dropping mint flavoured gummy bears into our laps, reminding us this is how rain meets earth. Things turn into cold slush in ravines down our throats, a garlic burp is the only antidote to saliva’s mush. All this is natural course, there’s a name for the drug inevitability makes of us. My father, a doctor used it to heal patients when he didn’t have a cure. Now I use it as flour for my ordinary bread, as ointment for my daily scabs. I live the most when I sink deep into soil to trace my blood composition. Certain times, I find new elements, dark and shining. Nascent metals. Predecessors of fire. On touching them, I seek the eventual happiness of coming home. When I’m back, I know I shall visit again for I’m still learning the difference between torching and lighting. O, how immaculate this back and forth is. O, how timeless the homecoming of joy is.
Satya Dash’s recent poems have been published or are forthcoming in The Magnolia Review, Prelude, New Mexico Review, Porridge, Barren Magazine. He has been a cricket commentator, dabbled with short fiction and has a degree in electronics from BITS Goa. He lives in Bangalore, India and recites his poetry in the city’s cafes. Twitter Handle: @satya043