Monsoon

Cranberry sauce stains the wide spikes

Of the sky–calming the tides scuttling

Away with wild timberland boots

On corroded metal materials across 

Lengthy aisles. I see it, the grey bedsheets

Overlaid on the blue iris of a foyer—a foyer

So broad, it looks like apollo's colossus 

Moulded into damp paper-boats heaved

On dirtbags of blinking water, peddling 

On injured asphalt roads—the forked

Road-splinters ajar like my wrinkles,

Glancing at the vessels formed on my

Cheekbones, hinting age.

I ask it, my vocal cords multiplying each

Sound with another, I ask it always about

Monsoon, about when, will monsoon 

Rinse the summer sins planted like basil

Seeds on my chafed, ruby lips. I ask it

Why is monsoon gone, why does it not

Come wash the satchel slung across 

The ventilators of my partitioning eyes?

I am hushed. 

Oh, but then–

The bruised white clouds gather on

The wharf of the sky, slowly skiing on 

Crisp icebergs of ignited stars, blanketing 

Them one by one. The stars–they smile, 

Accept defeat, and stash themselves 

Behind the grey pigments stamped 

On the river like prints of the sky.

The plants gently start to tremble,

Like my father's camel-hat exposed to

Nude winds and, abruptly, a summer-hot

Leaf quivers on the barren peninsulas

Of a sepia-silk curtain, apparently 

Moistened, gesturing a breath-like

Rustle of coarse-lobed fronds of

A bracken, remotely placed at the 

Center of my shoulder's plaza. 

Is it going to rain?

The summer alleys are evaporating;

Carrying moths stationed on slabs

Of an unhurried rain—patiently, instead,

Hurtling one droplet after another.

My eyes sway upward, glimpsing at

The petals of raindrops slowly kissing

The onside of my moss-pit face. 

I am happy—the clouds, like a choir,

Brush my hair, my arms, my eyelashes.

Rinsing each stem of my body, one by one. 

I look away, and I watch 

Monsoon finally

Crease a smile at me.