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Mukut Borpujari


I’m crawling out of this season of hard cold winter,

That stayed long enough. 

The bottom of my feet kicked up dirt on the hard asphalt.

When I planted a mango tree it smelled of green earth— 

Pulsing sun, dirt, and water. 

I do remember this. I pinned summer light upon my back 

And made no apologies for the space I took up— 

Barely clothed and sun-burned.

Now, a ball of cotton in the grey sky. 

The sun rolls low on the horizon, hangs, 

Then dips behind a city block.

Wind howling us into the night.

Inside in the erratic rhythm of this flickering 

Shadows and light, 

I conjure up the potent sky of the longest day;

Seeds, with a whole galaxy inside them. 

Cicadas vibrating outside

On the branches of a giant neem tree.

I never expected to find myself in such a cold place,

My hands dry out against it. 

I let the memory out, let it linger on the horizon,

Some kind of soaring like a kite—again and again. 

I loosen the buckles of my mind to fly back in time,

To the days of dried-out paddy fields, and herds of cattle—

I let it stay there.

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