Adrift

longer than I’ve ever stayed,
older than I’ve ever felt,
a crowd of crickets, huddling somewhere,
the whirring of pangs inside my chest,
tip of the ring finger,
no, right above my left ankle…
none.
it keeps flowing,
dandelions fly out of my mouth, a riot in the sky,
gliding past each other:
pitch black water, and a dash of fire.
reflection of a red-leafed tree standing atop the hill,
they are perched on its head now.

Derelict

you stand as empty as an abandoned bicycle
found rattling in wind against the ruinous wall,
falling down carelessly outside the train station.
empty as the beggar standing by
with their tired hands stretched out against the grieving sky.
the air pushed you gently
and you fell.
you fell like flowers fall
when they can’t bear the weight of staying anymore.
the way you will,
the way you always have
as if it is your nature to fall empty-handed
on the ground.

let me walk home

let me walk home,
chop my fingers, if need be.
cut my black hair from my nape,
a slithering snake, i agree.
i will still walk with the scissors stuck on my back,
my dress red,
a knee full of ocean,
i will fall on the street,
but let me walk home
till i see the bed inside my room
ambling along the edges of my being.

Debarati Sarkar grew up in a middle-class, Bengali household in North Calcutta. She has never been to any other city with her parents. A feminist research scholar by day and a poet by night, she practices hand-embroidery in-between, to collect her wandering mind.