Grinding

three poems by Purbasha Roy

1.Grinding

______________

In an 11:00 am morning, the sun in knownness

 of this universe streamed freely through the

windows. Sure, why love emerges between two

souls as necessity remains a mystery. Almost half

of the world velocitized somewhere without taking

me anywhere. Is this a loss I am dreaming with

open eyes. Thinking about you at an

undelightful distance turns me offbeat like

wind that whistling through teak wood flattens bumping

on the tar road circling it… With these thoughts

burgeoning I want to see the color of my face. Believing

mirrors never lie, I open a book. Heard literature mirrors

communities. What I read haunts me for more months than

a year can afford. It is an elegy inside which a sea

swims above a civilization from A to Z of its entire skeleton

and pulls it to an era of deep sleep grinding time zones

2.Replicating

_______________

 The chrysanthemum in the vase braves

the fan-whirl. I know this is a wound

desiring undress of healing. What tears out

through this moment. I hear already purpled

language of shadows. They know my name

with the familiarity of oceans with conches and

surfs. In my breaths there is a thing I'd like

to discover. For it seems like a weather that

tumbled out of an elegy. As I watch it

emerges, on it smell of something I lost before

it's arrival. Nothing is wrong with my stubborn

sadness. I am still beyond blessings. Carrying

the ancientness of a thing that walks between

unbuilding and apology. Traffic of words stumble

on my fingers, smeared with shades of oblivion,

only one word chose to stay near me: silence,

replicating the FoxO genes of immortal hydras

3.Busy market

_______________

 In a busy market, I enter a phone booth

the only place where sellers' and buyers'

voices seem to fade. Like white of milk

close to the afloat kesar strands on it. The

booth owner stares through the glass panel

as if suspecting my intentions for I didn't

pick the receiver. In response to his wordless

question, I begin play of my fingers above

dial-pad. And the stillness of the numbers

makes me feel an acquaintance for attachment

thinking behind these ten digits, God knows

how many hearts are in wait for a ring to

surface from an absolute nowhere

About Purbasha Roy

I am a writer from Jharkhand India. A she/her. My work has appeared or is forthcoming in Channel SUSPECT Strange Horizons Pulp Literary Review and elsewhere. Attained second position in 8th Singapore Poetry Contest. Best of the Net Nominee.