Poetry—Ritamvara Bhattacharya
I brush or don’t see
you, but without
you, so cold, colder
than stooped-by-age
shoulder, oh flesh, hand,
Love, come turn my page.
My love,
are you a bird reviving in a summer field?
Was it the lark ascending that you heard,
a ghost among its shy-hearted tunes?
Yes. I heard the lark escaping, too.
I have lost my spectacles. Is the book I was reading
still open by the side of our bed? Treat it as a bookmark
saving my place in our story.
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