Reena Prasad

 

Damp Letters

During the sweet season
rumour has it
the postmen used to throw them by the sack
into the monsoon-drunk river; once as the night train rumbled
over the bridge into another black tunnel,
those lost letters began raining over me

I could be wrong
The water must have got
your words too

perhaps

mere words
are the culprits
They water down the ache

To make up for all the burnt ones
I will plant some in your dreams

Letters that will reach you
regardless of the season
or the style of communiqué

Letters that would read you
and tell me I was wrong

Letters
made of torn, mango leaves unfurling summer at your fingertips, the sweat on them drenching my desert underneath
green as the trembling raindrops on a yam leaf slipping down a brown back
long as the muddy river with its grove of entwined trees

You want to weep for the lost music
softly strumming your strings when you are alone
You want to sing along but the words have long flown

The only song left was once a prayer
betrayed by its its own veracity
that had fallen from a wet sky
when a night had rescinded
my rights of loving you silently

Letters unwritten I will write for us
just like the letter that never reached
no, not the one the postman never delivered

The one
you never wrote to me

 

 

A Perfect Poem

 

 

A cat sits on her haunches; her tail
a quivering question mark
over my books

Busy 
tearing, chewing, spitting
paper

Triangle ears
folded back
pink-nosed with disgust
jaw-determined
to destroy
the remnants of bad poetry

I leave her in peace
to do the needful

For me
she is the perfect poem