Night Telephone

by Kushal Poddar


The clarity of a call
burns a hole in my soul.
I turn and turn, find no
door to the bedroom
where the old telephone
wakes up from its sleep
once or twice in a year.
My feet are hooves from
slaughterhouse truths. I move
in a circle whose
corners slash me, chop me
into seceded desires.
No image. Nothing
except the telephone
in the bedroom where
a linen sea swells, ebbs
again and again.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s