He’ll be late tonight, he says. As usual, it’s something ‘urgent’. By now, one has heard that word often enough and each time, from him. I gingerly roll it across my tongue. Ere gent. Before man? Some unarguable logic must preside herein, I shrug, for in my world no one thing is urgent. Not a bit, however, can be ignored. There's everything calling me at once -- dream, dishwasher, book, bread, love, laundry, classroom, closet, wars, windows, pudding, poetry. How I wish that early in history some woman had bought /ˈɜː.dʒənt/ from the lexicon as a threat against other imposed tasks till one arrived at them on one’s own. In my non-urgency, however, I smile, deeply partial to the French knot of my life over the running stitch of his, sanguine that in dance, grace alone matters and return to origin is always a privilege.
In Love’s Name
a land marauded a language left fallow a state scissored to slivers dignity retracted letters re-directed maps contoured to opportunity the fish-body slit open each time at that one place near the heart to coax what is inside and each time the same unceremonious declaration that it was not worth it *** In love’s name he asks for a body, a deed, a gate, a title, a password, a date. He is pleased that I agree, not realizing these matter little to me. In the bazaars of history they have asked for greater things in love – a revenge, a thumb, a trial by fire, a kingdom. Where I come from, love is a shock of red on the krishnachura bark, plentiful and unasked. Where I come from, love is not wise. It will barter all for peace no matter the price.
Basudhara Roy teaches English at Karim City College, Kolhan University, Chaibasa. Author of three collections of poems, the latest being Inhabiting, she writes because she must test words on her tongue, pulse, moods, agitation, abstraction and satire. Her recent poetry is featured in the Usawa Literary Review, EPW, Outlook, Madras Courier and The Dhakha Tribune among others. She loves, rebels, overthinks and reviews from Jamshedpur, Jharkhand.