I lament the melon seeds he is flinging midair: Our procrustean past chafing its future silence— Here, this is the present. Roots in fish gut, hemic livers & lungs. What remains of god is god itself; torched orchards, fruit gardens, peaches in panic from Shillong & an ancestry of four infidel brothers. Give a prisoner an open window, its baroque blue. Don’t forget their martyred sister. In a room of absences, we are both absent—we are what is missing. We parade in bodies we are both shameful of. India is no country without its felt history. Our fathers spill stories of their schizophrenic dust, which I mistake for confetti. In another city, when mobs leak into mouths—then, there, we may find each other, perhaps. Looking under my boot-soles, I scrape dirt stopping somewhere for no one.
Tuhin Bhowal’s poems and translations appear in adda (UK), Bacopa Literary Review, and elsewhere. He currently serves as a Poetry Editor at Bengaluru Review, Sonic Boom Journal, and Yavanika Press. Tuhin tweets @secondhandsins.