Four Poems 
Kalyani Bindu 
The sky was a dreary white
Words leave your eyes a dreary dark white,
some sky of exiled memories,
white that ached in my underbelly
weighing like a boat hooked onto a miserable staff,
the harbinger of a fruitless state of affairs,
the minister of unexplored terrains, sunken steps.
Silence: only a sacrificial water hole.
I saw no future. Hope was a dreary white.
Now, I remember it without the eyes:
Peace: a miniature sculpture inside an empty bottle.
Bread, butter, tea, sugar, the table, chairs,
you and me breathing ocean sounds,
just air under my palms, between your feet.
Not eyes.
Strange twig and flower
conspiracies on whitened
walls baptize believers —
the rut of the intolerant,
as eyes dwell and conclude
like tongues that conclude
where pungencies flow and die.
My cynicism asks for god’s
daddy — overthrown,
by god’s grace.
Is it something in the air?
Knifing up arms like ploughs in acrid disguise
in daylight daydreaming of wet winds
conjuring evil omens in the eyes of putrefying
crows away, but near like departing fingers
in your innards, your winter-air fortified soul
is plastic skin on mouth-less purple flowers
gargling silence in softly crumbling innards
like reluctant flames, folding meekly
like moths in death like dead humans
in arms enchanted by surrender.
Is it something in the air?
Boundaries of breath
Mouthing a tender sound
conceived in some tender treaty
out of time, the supple skin in my soul
exhales, breaking water,
serpentine veins now pulsating
as our winds fall in succession,
shredding spaces into slight horizons —
plastic-thin boundaries
Kalyani Bindu is an Indian writer and researcher, and author of Two Moviegoers. Her poems and essays have appeared in Better than Starbucks, Ethos Literary Journal, New Asian Writing, Variant Literature Journal, Navalokam, Muse India, the Indian Express and others.)


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