Water on water: the things that matter.

Impossible to describe

the deep empty longing,

in the voice of dogs. 

My childhood was elsewhere. 

The light shone, 

a thread through the eye 

of a needle I had to fit into. 

Calcutta is a big city,

the grandest in our region. 

But the wind still howls, 

specially at cyclone season. 

The howling of the wind. 

The taste of hail on the lips, 

on the neck, 

right on the tip of the nose. 

Some things can only be perceived 

in dreams. There’s no echo

without a wall. Then this girl 

turned to look at me: 

you still don’t remember? 

she asked. Or said.

In time I became an expert 

wrapping myself in  black. 

Someone would sing 

on the other side of the world; 

someone else would raise their hand

or their voice or their gaze. 

As far as I know, my dogs,

never tire of me. 

Turning corners: the body that departs. 

Cremation: the body that will never return. 

But how white the sky looks 

on a full moon night, 

I admire but you turn on the lights. 

Words fly over bodies of water, the ocean. 

What? you ask again. 

Stupefied is a spectacular adjective. 

Nobody abandoned you, 

I had to yell each word 

for you to hear me.

The echo: the wall: the effect. 

Understanding is just as likely

as misunderstanding,

a body huddled between clouds. 

A corner. 

The voices travel, 

over extremely long distances. 

The childhood that is watching me. 

This sky.