Faith
By: Purbasha Roy
I watched the birds move westward. They disappeared at a close distance among the scaffolds of noon fog. These disappearances are like a stamp on the page of longing, with the braille of beyonds sketched on it. I have always loved the procession of scarlet through the skies, but now, with this kind of vista enlivened before me, my idea of beauty becomes an open fist. Once, a dream had left me sobbing like a subway. The dream did something wrong to my body, as if the breaths were inhaling the smell of burning tyres. What role has beauty to play here? Except the yank of its dimensions for a neighbor’s garden. What is the unit of grief? The iceberg theory of it let my miserables and evasions run a small line through middle. I was told it means public image. I walk on it like a seasoned model. There are some days I work by myself through unforced errors. This day outlasted itself, becoming one of them. I reach with a body made of rain. I fall on everything with everything of me. The cosmos choirs beauty, and I mumble a tune combusting the nomenclature of desire. A thing from this happening becomes a map. I enter and find a dapple settled on the wish, that in a way or other survived the dark waves of faithlessness.
Purbasha Roy is a writer from Jharkhand India. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Iron Horse Literary Review, and The Margins as of late. Roy Attained 2nd Position in the 8th Singapore Poetry Contest, and is a Best of the Net Nominee.X