Photo courtesy: Rajesh Kosalram
When the slant of the sun is a lie of the lover
the copper tint on her skin is proportioned to his clouded gaze.
The scent in her hair is from the vettiver soaked in oil
like a mush of earth thick at the roots where the sun doesn’t reach.
When the moon mutes the sunlight, you are no different
from the oleander flowers and the gardenia paled dusty ivory.
The pallor on the banana leaf is the same shade as the darbah grass
in the copper dish where the ghee mutates into poison.
Who can summon the voice of the river weighed by slurry?
In my city even the crows have grown less clamorous.
It is left for someone to bring home what lies cold in unturned earth
that hasn’t known the warmth of a worm’s breath.
My Garden 