Aekta Khubchandani |
|
Sunstorm
for Kaushiki
Find a house by the waterfront.
Be it a lake, river, ravine, creek.
Bend towards the wash basin, hear the tap
water gurgle above everything else.
I wish you find the beach, that the beach finds you,
soft sand in your soft hands, smelling salt from sea,
your hair will smell like that too.
Curl your toes in the warmth of your blanket
there must be a name for when the storm
has passed and the sun still clips in the sky.
What is that feeling? Are we too acquainted
with the syllabus of sadness?
A basil plant can find a home in a tomato soup can.
Who is to say we know desire.
Imagine a room walled with mirrors,
four floor lamps, one
in each corner. Imagine the light
multiply with its reflections.
Love is lousy at multiplying with distance.
Look at pain before it makes your bed
and tells its silly tales, walk through life as if
you’re walking through a rosebush, or under the
shade of sycamore trees, taking time with the waiting sun.
Then you find the beach, or the beach finds you
with sun soaking in your heart like a soft sponge,
smell the salt, taste the sea,
your hair will run with the wild waves too.
I like cafes which can brew a cortado
as if they’re the only ones who understand coffee.
They’re selling coffee on tap these days.
Who is to say what understanding is.
for Kaushiki
Find a house by the waterfront.
Be it a lake, river, ravine, creek.
Bend towards the wash basin, hear the tap
water gurgle above everything else.
I wish you find the beach, that the beach finds you,
soft sand in your soft hands, smelling salt from sea,
your hair will smell like that too.
Curl your toes in the warmth of your blanket
there must be a name for when the storm
has passed and the sun still clips in the sky.
What is that feeling? Are we too acquainted
with the syllabus of sadness?
A basil plant can find a home in a tomato soup can.
Who is to say we know desire.
Imagine a room walled with mirrors,
four floor lamps, one
in each corner. Imagine the light
multiply with its reflections.
Love is lousy at multiplying with distance.
Look at pain before it makes your bed
and tells its silly tales, walk through life as if
you’re walking through a rosebush, or under the
shade of sycamore trees, taking time with the waiting sun.
Then you find the beach, or the beach finds you
with sun soaking in your heart like a soft sponge,
smell the salt, taste the sea,
your hair will run with the wild waves too.
I like cafes which can brew a cortado
as if they’re the only ones who understand coffee.
They’re selling coffee on tap these days.
Who is to say what understanding is.
