Goose – 1
This, a good place to begin
the circle, dear jogger, opens up
the park and the morning.
You should not stir the goodness
or the goose.
The skein of the waterfowls are scattered
in the pasture.
Today’s mood made them shells holding
a hollowness and a howl for the sea.
*
When the exotic wings glide in
the park the goose fights for her
boundary at first.
Zen eventuates. She settles between
the flocking birders and the winter’s
slaty sun.
We, the local walkers, already gave her
pet names. The goose stares hard
with its hundred names, native pride,
doubting vigilance.
The Mystery, Life
My mate finishes pissing.
He plays drunken bird toy
swaying on the port bow.
“Now we are out of wine
in our blood.” He slurs.
His voice is ash and sand.
The current streams five shades
of the river. A conical buoy oscillates
midst this concurrence.
“You may drown.” My shouting
sounds gay, buoyant. Sometimes
he does drown, emerges eaten by the fish.
And then we steal the boat
from the pier leased by his father
again and again.
Brother Blood
The brother who opens your id
and loses the key,
makes you drunk and piss
in your own yard as your wife
watches from the first floor boudoir
returns.
You know the grey. You know the why.
You know the honey
and the sting he hides.
You lower your guards in the ring,
let the blood ooze, trickle
down your chin and yet do not wipe
the corner of your mouth.
He offers your children a lift
to their school,
takes them for fun instead.
Nothing sharp, not more harm
than one pale ale too many,
your wife sees a blade
whenever sun catches his glasses.
He returns. He disappears.
You know where. You know why.
Kushal Poddar is the author of Postmarked Quarantine and 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, published across the globe.