Literary Yard

Search for meaning


By: Deeya Bhattacharya


I don’t remember certain things now
I don’t need, a tug, at the waistband
I wear, while dressing vegetables
a breath of cinnamon, at my forehead
driving my beads of perspiration while at work
The staunch garlic soup at the starter course.
My taut breasts, my thin waistline
the kohl-defined eyes
your whistling summons
nipping at my ear-buds
while I clutch uneasily
the loosened folds of my dress
incensed memories wafts camphor like
hovers upon my impressive sheen
none-the-less your straw –effigy I keep
burn it often and on in silence
as I boil rice or tea.
the pain I preserve, salted and limed
to lure myself on unsavory moments
the insult at the cushion of my heart, I house
to fall back on
to fall back when your love tingles me most.


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