You said I must rest
this time, longer
this time, there, away from home.
Your pointing finger is my final verdict, nothing new.

And nothing new
your concern about high decibels
again slept me between mute walls.

A day later I replaced ‘mute’ with ‘busy’
they, in constant negotiation with the windows
to lift the thin line between outside and inside.

Your footsteps rained outside my room for some time and stopped
and vanished for months. I lost count of how many.
Your angels took over.

Inertia teaches the language of the inert
how walls are so porous, so receiving.
The sky changed, and here, they.
From pearly mist to soft ember
sunflower yellow to natural white.
Evenings I sipped my sweetless tea
but the walls, they were all honey.
Those who walk past call them walls
now I call them prisms
where else do I go looking for irony
the prisms give them to me in clusters.

I call them large hearted chroniclers
they made space for one more ache and heal cycle.
In the backdrop of hallway lights
they made me feel like a celebrity breaching her shoot contract
cheating a movement here and there.

The night, a coffee brown, hung on the wall
the streetlight sent in a flickering tree.
As a token of appreciation my fingers assemble
a bird on the lowest branch.
How such secret games rewind seventy to seven.

Your angel comes in ‘to prick painlessly’
we both know how to play, we’re old players.
your angel smiles What are you looking for on that wall
I smile back Walls? Where are they?

 

Daya Bhat

Daya Bhat

Daya Bhat is from Bengaluru, India. She has published a book of poems, A maiden of 29, with the Writers Workshop, India. Her poems and short fiction appear in literary publications Kitaab, New Asian Writing, Off the Coast, Indiana Voice, The Bangalore Review, Earthen Lamp Journal and Poetry Pacific among others. She also enjoys painting her musings in water color.

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