Twenty years down the lane
cobwebs wrapped in my tongue
red broken nails gnawing at
the sylvan table, the pressure cooker
whistles, the fading black ink of the recipe book spites at me, scratching the metaphors sealing my white lips
water bickering down the sink, flushing away the stale desires
mellow sun rays forming shadows
out of the roses in porch, Gelsomina
on Sunday in her kitchen whisking the cream, husband and children’s chattering and squabbling lulled by Ella’s voice
honey, ‘only mashed potatoes and fish!!!’
A wry smile and a few tears drenched in years of silence, red hues of sunset sucking the gnarls of the mango tree
Brinda, ‘don’t sulk, I’ll be back in no time, cranberries from market?’
‘Squeeze me/But please don’t tease me’
black block heels striding across the alleys, city of joy’s love soaked dreams incites quandary of gen z hamlets, ecstasy languishing in bulging superficial veins,
a lump in my throat, wrinkled hands forages for fresh apples, malnourished children laughs in their paltry existence, starving women walking barefoot amidst blinding headlights, cars honking,
‘tick tick tick tick’, abhoring patience twitches my thumb, horizontal and vertical saccades of weary eyeballs gawping at the nicotine stained lips of a stranger
Mother, “”only cookies and tea!!!!!””
memories stapled with ceaseless unanswered questions chuckles, birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dip, ‘you’re the light that makes a ship drown in sea, are we running out of lamp oil?’
‘Missing you since you went away/Singin’ the blues away each day’
Twenty years down the lane
sauntering across narrow streets of
cobblestone, shafts of golden light glazed in Rilke’s ‘slumbering silence’ of April
wraps up my bosom, a gushing warmth
pierces through the white under my skin
Sliced chicken breasts marinated with
ginger garlic paste, agony disguised as gluttony tastes sour, Miller’s Magda in her lilac dress turns on the knobs of gas stove, dense white smoke, banging on the door
Brinda, ‘don’t worry this will be the climax of my film, any more kebabs?’
Coffee stained bedsheets rinsed in old summer fragrances of Fellini’s Italy, verbose of a mad man induces Freudian slips
‘Counting the nights and waiting for you’
in creases of my palm appears a fuzzy six lettered word, the wars have burnt alive faiths, people have stopped
buying dry promises from the flea market of life, parched throats no longer
longs for drinks, cacophonies of slogans boiling conscience, glances of those same pair of pensive eyes, ‘are you talking to me?’ fervid jazz drumbeats of twenty two autumns back resurfaces hollowing the marrow out of my bones, roaring dark clouds, honey, ‘only pakoras and chutney!!!’
Mother, ‘only rice and curry!!!’
Yellow blemishes on the red apron, mumbled groaning, Dip, ‘you’re the sea that never quenches thirst yet the colour that painters desire to devour, am I running out of colours chasing time (you)?’
‘I’m in the mood to let you know/I never knew I loved you so’
Srilekha Mitra is a self-described overthinking cinephile who occasionally seeks refuge in poetry.
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