We Loved Not Each Other
It never occurred so that I woke up
and a few loving words confessed
she, flinging herself shyly about me.
That she ever strayed so far
as to break a bough of roses—
an offering on converging paths
of marital bliss.
Her glass eyes weaving mystery
piled dreams scarcely heard.
She wandered silently, running swift
and sudden when summoned.
Buds bloomed, leaves fluttered—
spring be or not; colour flushed on
petals shadowed in ceramic pots.
This year I await snow, for summer
is done, night fallen; the breeze
discovers there is no breath of air alive.
Her calmed ashes, yearning for the ghat,
sing her wounds only to herself.
I look everywhere, follow
furrowed fields, whirl of leaves,
conceding: “You should see now
how I roam about your grave
to wake you to answer.”
and a few loving words confessed
she, flinging herself shyly about me.
That she ever strayed so far
as to break a bough of roses—
an offering on converging paths
of marital bliss.
Her glass eyes weaving mystery
piled dreams scarcely heard.
She wandered silently, running swift
and sudden when summoned.
Buds bloomed, leaves fluttered—
spring be or not; colour flushed on
petals shadowed in ceramic pots.
This year I await snow, for summer
is done, night fallen; the breeze
discovers there is no breath of air alive.
Her calmed ashes, yearning for the ghat,
sing her wounds only to herself.
I look everywhere, follow
furrowed fields, whirl of leaves,
conceding: “You should see now
how I roam about your grave
to wake you to answer.”
*A ghat is a broad flight of steps or a passage leading down to the bank of a river. Ghats have been in use for centuries in the Indian subcontinent as cremation grounds, among other Hindu rituals.
Previously published in Wives: poems, edited by Ankit Raj Ojha (Hawakal, 2023).
05/20/2025
09:29:25 AM