by Kushal Poddar
Sunlight spreads as if
someone's left a mess
of coarse grounds sugar.
It ensues a skin-burn and
tastes sickly but you wish
it were more so and less acidic.
Near noon every inch burns.
I look glazed, smell like a cotton candy
bought from some shack on the seashore
where an invasion bled and when
finally freedom staggered inland
its footprints on the sand were red.
The sprinklers dry down. I see a child
through my ears for eons and then
the baby-shoes' squeaking ebbs
into the evening.
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, published across the globe.