Vishal Dutia

I never thought you’d break down
like that
in the sunshine
seabed as the color
of your grey.
Sedate. You
stand here now
in the pastel shadow of a windy,
sandy coming.
Willingness to be carried away by mournful events;
Birds that almost arrived.

Today, i held the phone in my hand
in a room that could not hold anyone.
In its reticent space.
Someone brought you some bread,
cheese, water.
He asked me about your health.

“So, where is this?”
A countryside
with boxes.
I will unfold the curtain for you.
Here is the morning that will
unfold itself under your table.
A wide puddle; Reflections
of transmission towers.
This happiness we are
not capable of.

Did you see how
the blackout fell
upon the city
like mist, how it
glissaded down the crisp
shingles in a crude twilight?

Inaudible shower in the bathroom.
Now, the dry sky comes
as a memory you must finish,
the passing of sickness on your bed.
The buildings that endured your torpor.

Should i wait for you?
Your alabaster white in some strangers’
conversation,
inhumed in a nudge
of the furniture.
There’s a border between childhood and grief.

And i’m falling onto the floor
the way it happened to you beneath the window
in a sleeping dawn
When the bulks of mountains echoed
A short, flat cry
and the land was shivering
under the houses it could not bury.

© VishalDutia