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Nest

Like the skin on your four-year knees

your family of cats

had little to hide.

Your family of birds

father, feather, fairy mother

flying on a scooter

those early years in Jalpaiguri . . .

Where did it begin, those gooseberry winters?

Right there, nobody’s cat plunged.

swift as fog and vanished forever.

You can recognize still

the gully uncurled into the evening library,

thin readers, half-shirts?

In your dreams

squeaky sandals

slipped inside a comic book.

You would like to turn

turn through the uncombed locks

of continents left

of houses lived and fled.

Turn till your fingers are caught

in silken wings of a butterfly.

Broken.

Seconds before you knew man-lips

mangoes blossomed on your chest

the city garden soaked

crushed afternoons.

Seconds before they walked miles away

rust and salt lingering

bells of anklets, lost

sisters watched peacocks and rabbits chase

(their) pearly eyes clean as stone.

Those years of early alphabets

bleeding heart, a flower

or, sisters in same silly frills.

It will be easier to heal

Heal from Michigan snow,

thousand faces, origins unknown

if you stood in front of the old house

to touch the rotten floors,

with your moonish cheek

heavy still from the waters of Teesta.

You know this, the tangerine spill down your elbows,

the blot on your teeth and tongue

you get two for fifty paisa

the sickly chill of popsicles

in Jalpaiguri.

Mountains closed

on your four-year chest

the forest beneath your flesh

remembers half of everything —

Popcorns drop,

Bur flowers too

from your hands

into the lake.

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