Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
There was this little boy. He played only in the oranges and purples of evenings. He never left his
room in the day – it was white, too loud and pigeons had cordoned off the balcony.
One evening, he slipped into the gap between the headboard and the mattress. He flashed his tightly
shut eyes open – he felt alive. He realised the hardest thing about losing a lover is that mornings
continue to come. In the warmth of this crack, he whispered, I have had my heart broken. It echoed. It echoed some more. He tasted tang in the reverb. He stopped.
At first, he was tentative, a spider feeling for the trip line. And then, he gushed into the light,
occasionally lifting his feet, he didn’t want his soles to miss out. He sped through, flicked by fingers
of grass, the earth bounced till he reached an orange tree. Ah, the tang.
As he reached out, he heard, you are hungry but take only one.
He stuck his thumb into the belly button of the orange. Sometimes, his heart seemed to be swollen
just like this. He peeled, each time, stabbing into the centre.
Each shred of skin unfurled around his feet.
He tasted it. It was sweet. Each bite burst into a sticky trail down his chin.
Again, he heard, go back now. Play in the light. Don’t smoke so much. The secret: the voice said ever
so lightly, the world will still be in the morning.
broken