Fighting before the dinner on the big day
over a shard of memory or an issue
that may be global or rather intimate
is a tradition I haven't observed since
death attended one of those tables
we spread across the time. He played
with us, indulged in one silly after-dinner game
adults didn't play, but then death didn't look
grown up and feel proud of its youth and vigour.
We all feel shy to look childish until we mature.
We had no garden because the common yard
deepened the disputes between blood and kin.
My mother's wishes' black mold pollinate and haunt
the fence, dirt and cement. We played on the porch,
chirped and shouted until it was death's turn
to roll the dice.
© Kushal Poddar
Kushal Poddar has authored ten books, the latest being A White Can For The Blind Lane, and his works have been translated into twelve languages. He is a co-editor for Outlook Magazine and the editor of Words Surfacing. He does illustrations and sketches for various magazines.
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