Winter is coming
It always feels strange when October comes.
I sometimes sit observing the fireflies trapped
in the ritual of light, their wings vacillating like
drowned speech before an abrupt ending. I try
to shield meaning from the silences that greet me
with sharp derision. Outside a thin girl pretends
to feed her neighbour’s cat, stealing casual glances
at my bedroom window. Like a strained afterthought,
her subversion crafts an island in the air
amidst the Hindustani classical that wades in with the
shrill whistle of the pressure-cooker from the kitchen.
Mother walks in, the wholeness of her face buried
within the trace of a batik shawl, closes the window
with allegorical sweetness and says,
“Winter is coming.”
Leaving
Tonight I leave behind a silent city
whose memories run like blood in my bones.
Abandoned faces will never ask questions,
only the quiet remains of the night receded like laughter
when you let a lonely caress run through my fingers.
Like a trapeze artist, I always had an awareness of falling,
fearing the dilemma of choice.
I pretended to be not paying attention when
you talked about love in the most roundabout way.
What can I leave you with but the anxious strain
of denial without justification, a few unfinished
poems, and the uncertain mist of soft October nights?
There will be no goodbyes,
affection did not come easy to you and
formalities were never my choice.
Library of Mirrors 