Self-Esteem
Satya Dash
The time of the day when light breaks
a body like a loaf sliced into parallel planes
is sometimes known as truth,
the sequence of events tell me.
In my autumn garden rotting of absent
mindedness, birds confuse the occasional sunlit
flower with a shock of gold. Their definitions,
their paradoxes, I think, must deal with the same swirling
complexities as mine. It goes for any natural being
in a patch of wilderness. The world eternally in half-mast
melancholy mourning the graying of a tree,
an ant stomped, a neck slashed; death, utterly serene
in response to the clamor of its procession
like a regal groom on a mare following the unfolding
spectacle of his baraat. I wish I were hysteric enough
to understand the nuances of your dance. I tried
my hand at the skill but the art of madness decrees
a binary diagnosis— you feel it or you don’t. That quiver
I saw in your tremulous eyes, fearing revisions
of what was so impossible to see clearly—
the past — how it moved like the eyes of a mercury
eyed monster silvering his way through your sleep
to trenches of arcane depths in irrecoverable trails.
I don’t think I spoke about this: as a boy I once licked
a Dead Sea facial mask, spit out its bark of russet milk
convinced it was some sort of exotic chocolate
perhaps I didn’t have the taste for. Forgive me, I still find
it’s difficult to discern. Which is why I’m licking my wounds, a truly
animal satisfaction, indulging, waiting as long as it takes
for your reflection to appear in the trembling lake.
The Child After War
Satya Dash
is still a blossom. The moon after cyclone
doesn’t become chalk. I’m not in
the business of revival but I’m in
the business of living. Which means lacing
anger with dew. Which means
every hand washed by water
grows watery, every face splashed
wet becomes saliva gelling
from inside. I don’t know how this face
became my face. My mother rubs her lips
to check if winter’s here. I look
forward to seasons turning skins
to skeins. A backdrop mushrooms,
a hallway of mirrors make an image
a river. All you see are tributaries. You,
a mouth that spawns bones of glass.
Someone walks into that bright room. A lover
is blinded. It’s the sun. How your body bows
like the lip of a jug pouring nectar. Further
into the backdrop, a rumor floats how blood
is the secret to nectar’s stickiness. The startling
viscosity of character. Further back, in the confused
air of Delhi’s December, a fat fog sings
of fatigue like a guest who knows well
they have overstayed their welcome.
about the writer
Satya Dash's poems have been published or are forthcoming in Wildness, Redivider, Passages North, Cosmonauts Avenue, The Florida Review, Prelude, The Cortland Review, and Poetry@Sangam, amongst others. Apart from having a degree in electronics from BITS Pilani-Goa, he has been a cricket commentator too. He is a two-time Orison Anthology and Best New Poets nominee. He spent his early years in Odisha and now lives in Bangalore, India. He tweets at: @satya043.