An intense poem by Deeya that braids alienation and love.
I can’t celebrate you
Scraps of junk you rot
in my mind – the sudden stab in my ribs
doesn’t bleed through a gaping hole
often resides
After the dishes done in the kitchen
I ought to write to you
write in ink of my blood and bones –
bones stare like vanilla scoops
that I feed the sparrows with
you have set the limit to nine hundred words,
words undress me – my mood swings
I begin an octave, memories unfurl themselves
impasse for me
you can’t bribe my soul you tried
the garish wound on my breast
and the womb that bleeds to house you.
Picture design Anumita Roy
Born in Durgapur, West Bengal, Deeya Bhattacharya has a PG in English Literature and a Graduate in Education from the University of Burdwan. Her poems and articles have appeared in several national and international journals, websites, and e-zines, besides several anthologies. Member of Poets International, she has read her poetry at quite a few fests. She teaches English and Poetry at a State Government High School.
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