Basudhara Roy

Chisel her into a night

that has parted ways

with all else.


A night neither drunk nor amnesiac,

its memory having simply setwith the sun

in empathy with its fatigue.


Ordainhere a floral rush.

Ifithas the fragrance of outstretched arms,

any blossom will be enough.


Address her grief before you address her.

Unwrap tenderly her sorrow

to let it wear some moonlight on its skin.


In her ears whisper

the name shecan become, the name

she will not remember tomorrow.


Spread your longing over her limbslike

patient sandalwood paste and wait

for her to flower.


In silence’s forest help her find a voice

she will trade her sleep with, a voice

she will notrecognize at dawn.


When the sun rises,

burn the night like dead leaves and forget

how you forgot about how you slept.