On tears and taxidermy
ii.
tears tasted salty
when i was little
sometimes i would inspect a drop
against the light-
the science behind it, i discovered:
warm when angry
cold when sad
somewhat-both when somewhat-both
or happy.
evaporation occurred in mid-flight –
between the wind and dancing trees, just imagine,
the changing hues when the storm built up
against the grilled sky at my grandparents':
invisible droplets collecting in our eyes
then draining from the corners as we sang nursery songs --
whatever science meant.
my eyes would catch the desperation of running passersby
looking for shelters under tall trees;
hurried images:
of wobbly rickshaws, baby-taxis,
the only hawai-mithaiwala in the neighbourhood,
other children on rooftops, a crow or two
against the current (of the wind),
and green chips wrappers.
my eyes would also collect the desperation of other faces
and my somewhat feelings
laced with unknown guilt and irony
which had no name.
my grandmother and those from her village would tell stories:
of flying roofs, mustard fields which would turn yellow in winter, sugarcane juice,
and end the note with details – drowned out
by the sound of mouths-chewing-paan –
seasoned with mentions of meals
that played tag with rain.
- 19 July, 2021
Rifat Islam Esha is a poet. For more updates on her work, you can follow her on Instagram: @rifatiesha
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