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.



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