Urvi Kumbhat |
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Blue City
A woman opens the door for us, her skin
a wrinkled walnut. In the courtyard,
maps crumble. A lantern glows
like a diamond buried in dust, and
my father’s voice fills the sky with memory.
Rickshaws rattle past, eavesdropping.
A clump of orchids wilts in the sun.
Here, a glass of water from his childhood.
There, a ghost from the partition: tales
of a departed saint, his blessings scattered
for both Hindus and Muslims. The eons-old
family shop catches light, cordoned off
by tin shutters and death.
No one lives here but the poor, and
no one comes here but the lonely,
looking for something like history--
the children have become so curious.
The blue walls are doused in peeling
majesty. In the afternoon noise,
bikes growl and I hear the silence of time.
A lilac dusk tracks the to and fro
of generations as a man squats heavy,
his muscles rippling. Under his turban,
sweat mixes with moustache. I think he
wonders who we are. I wonder the same thing.
Church
I was the first to hurt you. It’s raining again--
a storm has wrestled the leaves from the trees.
I rediscovered a winter evening, or maybe
it rediscovered me. The church and the moon
wept as you played the piano, your shirt pink
like the soft underbelly of the school cat.
Silence has fallen on the crowd, for the lamplit
walls admonished us for talking. I knew nothing
of classical music, I don’t know what you played,
but I knew it was over too soon. You followed
my exit through swinging mahogany doors. Cold
gnawed on my damp hair, you kissed me behind
a statue of some long-dead Saint. Now I am
walking on a green carpet, fallen from the sky.
The leaves turn to mulch, and I wonder what
else falls out of the sky wherever you are. Here,
it churns buttermilk clouds like a machine, and
I have forgotten how it felt to hurt you. A single
red bench rests by a brick red wall. No one sits
here today, not even the gently falling rain.
*
I was the first to hurt you. It’s raining again--
a storm has wrestled the leaves from the trees.
I rediscovered a winter evening, or maybe
it rediscovered me. The church and the moon
wept as you played the piano, your shirt pink
like the soft underbelly of the school cat.
Silence has fallen on the crowd, for the lamplit
walls admonished us for talking. I knew nothing
of classical music, I don’t know what you played,
but I knew it was over too soon. You followed
my exit through swinging mahogany doors. Cold
gnawed on my damp hair, you kissed me behind
a statue of some long-dead Saint. Now I am
walking on a green carpet, fallen from the sky.
The leaves turn to mulch, and I wonder what
else falls out of the sky wherever you are. Here,
it churns buttermilk clouds like a machine, and
I have forgotten how it felt to hurt you. A single
red bench rests by a brick red wall. No one sits
here today, not even the gently falling rain.
*
