Lopa Banerjee

I am coiled around the shadow
Of this birth, yet again,
My soul, gaping, bewildered in blood,
Gushing, as it empties, collapses and settles.

Yet again, my body, a child of the pale, cold moon
Waits at the melting palette of the river,
Shivering, crumpled, drooping.
Yet again, the winter-killed world, gnawing, clenching,
Shrinks before my moonstruck form.

Did I creep closer, to shadows or sounds?
Did love trickle in, a heartbeat, a snowdrift,
Or a tiny stream? I float around,
An island in the palm of the night.

I watch the night in its dancing shadows,
Predators sneaking out in a wasteland of sin.
I am safe within the womb of the moon,
My eager feet scurry through,
I resurrect in the swathing river
Of baby faces, waxed in their milky warmth.

The river, zipped tight in its mighty blood drops.
Every night, beneath the asphalt sky,
I am cracked, sprouted, germinating in a makeshift life.
I am thigh-deep in love that crackles, burns
And am reborn, in the nocturnal rain.
I lie in the weightless bed of the night,
The world around in visceral nothingness.

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