Saturday, July 25, 2020

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes


And I looked, and I thought, can it be? Can I consume time like a beetroot, or consommé ? Is the icon imprisonable in a plasticky print repeated and million times and hung in kitchens where sushi is prepared or maachh - bhaat or in fish and chip shops? Do icons like to be worshipped with vinegar in salt sea air food stalls or eaten with ivory chopsticks in family dining rooms? Is life mine to live? Can a volcano live in ice encased cones like a hot chilli ice cream or will love steal into my heart like a mountain reflected in a still lake? Does a living passion die or can music still explode into war bombs fading slowly like fireflies turning into dull green prickly insects in growing day light?

Morning breaks to unfinished haiku and promised novels when the heart crumbles into butter- biscuits in beige milky tea. Gauche geckos dart back into shadowy retreats with mouthfuls of fat mosquitoes replete with four o’clock warm sleeping human blood, while eyes seek familiar scene-hooks to tether the restless souls lurking in the glinting glass windows.

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