Kushal Poddar
West Bengal, India
Two old men sit at my beginning and my end, closed eyed, descending down their blind staircase.
What does blindness mean if they do not see me staring into their eyes, salvaging the moment they saw- my mother tilting her head toward my father’s shoulder as her water broke then and there at our steps?
At the beginning. At the end.
Every day.
There, the banyan tree sprawled over the old heads and an elephant cloud disturbs the new building tips. I dig; dig until I am born again,
a part of me deciding to come and another to return unborn.