Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










WALLS by Usha Akella

There is no perfume of fear

in these walls.

What color is this air?

If I say rose,

rose becomes shroud,

and if I say sunflower

its head will droop

with the setting sun.


The stars do not shine here giddily

 or the vertigo of ellipsis,

or the coffin of night

or the hysterics of the sun.


These walls are not the holes between bars.


What is this room

where a woman sleeps

without a flushed cheek

or labored heart?


USHA AKELLA