3:00 pm

The crumple of skin behind knuckles, 
A slight itch in the corner of an eye
The corner of the shelf, where
I store our bodily smells, like I hoard them
Protect them against time
Shut out from the volatile rest 
And this untiring motion
Breathless commotion 
As a fragile constant
Tethered to my soul

The woman downstairs
In a purple-blue nighty
A child clinging to her waist
Like a creeper to a tree
Being fed from a bowl of silver
The smile of that silver, in the afternoon sun
The belly of that child
The mashed dal in that bowl
His refusal to swallow
Her persistence to make him

Swallow
Like, we do
That (corner in the) shelf, forgotten
Chasing something we can't even see. 
Can't spare one constant unmoving hour in a day
Going through circles
And arcs, circles that don't even care to finish.

We wait at the ends of those arcs, 
To automatically shred into smithereens. 

1 comment:

Usha Ramani said...

To me, this post seems aptly timed:-) I like it coz I can so damn relate to it!