Mandakini Bhattacherya
Always the rain creeps up.
It could be happily drip-dripping
from the shiny tree leaf-tap.
Instead it smells its way up
the rusty window stays,
chases off-the-grid roaches
to the pixels of egg-shells
and rotten tomato sap.
Always the rain creeps up.
Up the power pylons of my legs
into the hidden crevices,
ignoring anti-static devices,
into the heart’s empty lock-up.
A brownout has cropped up.
The rain peers, hesitates, lingers;
fingers the positrons of the cavity,
gathers speed, twists arteries and wires;
hooks them to the rainbow arc lamp.