The Sun is in his frayed long loose trousers
it slumbers near kitchen’s rusted tin stove.
Its opaque reading glasses hang around its gnarled neck.
A moth ferries afternoon dreams—
on the stained walls of the slaughter house.
Pearl
My mouth has been raining
bright flashes, a spark and a roar.
I have been to the dentist’s several times
down the lane, to the other side of the painting—
My mouth sings
Of the Sun, wild poppies,
bargaining land, trinkets of dust,
jingling coins, stolen cats...
My mouth cloudbursts
debris, onyx memories,
labour of a fragile mother,
of a baby’s half born mouth embossed in soil.
My mouth flurries
gold, topaz, amethyst rooftops
hunter boots, milkless hard breasts
cupped dew drop mornings and a dozen tiger lilies.
My mouth is a confinement cell
of rosaries—
It repeats
the prosody of belief.
It choruses the language of
lemon grass, basil, mint.
It pours cups
of pearl faith
for the deceased and living.
Ritamvara Bhattacharya is a poet based in Darjeeling
