"Weapon" and other work by Kushal Poddar
Weapon
I throw the weapon into the water.
It makes no more noise than a pebble.
The azure-green-grey opens a miniscule mouth
to say what we already know, always do,
and then the lake becomes stillness, a mirror
reflecting nothing back, reverse island in
the waves of the trees. I throw away the cold
I throw away the metal. The evidence.
That is all. The crickets kill the silent moment.
The birds find another interest.
Enamel
My buddy Pat has that
enamel mug
from his railway days
he still carries
for some coffee and eggs.
I lean against my knees
grin, "A train-track cowboy."
The morning ambles past
our flesh sorted inside our shades.
I admire the thin azure line
throbbing around the mug's mouth
as if it knows the secret
shall be spilled in spite of its vigilance.
Here all roving begins to form
and surrenders to the formlessness.
We lie supine. The sky claws us blind.
Earth and dirt buzz like utility lines.
Kushal Poddar, the author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages.