Saturday, 1 August 2020

Monosija Banerjee, Poetry 2020, Featured Writer

A Song for the Natives

They were asked to sush themselves
in front of the outer space, in front
of promising maps honking at doorsteps,
so they shuffled incense in the air and slept
under the quiet warmth of hiccups and bundled up sheets of existence

They continue to limp
with one foot extraterrestrial
that the country have stamped onto
their minds, efficaciously feeding lies-
"silence will keep you from uprooting harmony!"

I stumble on to this obstacle,
flipping eyelashes at the break of morning -
the violent rumble of our cemented bones being cracked open can be heard
even from centuries away
through swishing lace curtains
and the complexity of porcelain bowls
at the tap of a thumb, a splitting image of
every serpent that ever came to man, uninvited and taken for granted, eluding gossamer freedom,
my normalcy shakes away
in undulating proximity and latches
onto the monster on my shoulders

Father says I'm starting to show lines
under my eyes, jumping ephemeral aspirations
like a Bengal tiger from a cage
Do I dare say,
it's the only way I feel connected to the baggage
of bloody spines,
our thousand deceived footprints were made to disappear away, poof!
But our faces came back
dripping sweats, the very remains of sovereign debts- how we couldn't let go of
this sickening hunger.

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