Mallika Bhaumik
It’s almost dawn, the day yawns and stretches out of its shell, the sky – a split egg yolk.
The house at the end of the crooked lane is caressed by the light of the infant sun.
The windows are open, the mulmul curtains let in a whiff of the morning air.
The potted plants in the backyard whisper about the night before, they had been witness to the way we draw the contours of our longings, the way we secretly weave each silvery strand our love poem.
Their low voices tell the tale of how a forest grows at night, trees with long green arms touch the sky, the pale moon softly croons.
A creeper climbs up my nape as I crane forward to kiss your mouth.
The heady fragrance of the night queen fills the spaces around the blurred boundaries of our skin
And our tongues …daring travellers probing deep deep,
past midnight,
the crooked lane opens wide.
A sparkle of fireflies!