Rum orange of the yolk sun balks briefly
the good festival of light doubling up
as the festival of resounding smoke.
Our ability to moderate dies.
A rocket screeches into a tree twinkling
emerald pop behind the phone tower―
ferris wheel of gunpowder, nitrate snow,
the crisp air wailing cruel friction A child
tugs at his father’s pocket―Show me
more light in the sky. The dog, flat like bread
in a corner, jaw drooling sideways
like a wrestler tapped out, match long conceded
to war sounds and sudden climaxes. I too
save my howls for a night of better ache.
The next dawn arrives without approval,
almost without notice. A middle aged
jogger at Khan Market feels his lungs yowl
for the first time like his heart. The city
caked under a thick frosting that would have
sunscreen makers lose sleep. Particulate
matter descending like confetti. Spit
turns wintery, masks―impediments for
facial recognition phone locks. A friend
considers leaving the city. The dog
has a faint idea of leaving, his pink
tongue lolling out like a mush curtain
in the day’s largesse, grateful for
his underwhelming life expectancy.
Satya Dash’s poems have been published or are forthcoming in Waxwing, Wildness, Redivider, Passages North, The Journal, The Florida Review, Hobart, The Cortland Review and Poetry@Sangam among others. Apart from having a degree in electronics from BITS Pilani-Goa, he has been a cricket commentator too. He is a two-time Orison Anthology and Best New Poets nominee. He spent his early years in Odisha and now lives in Bangalore, India. He tweets at: @satya043