Your Dream
By Purbasha Roy

________________

Next time I will travel by train- Fanny Howe

The dream is yours. The weather is maybe
summer. The gulmohar reddening in the
Linking Road sidewalk. Or a winter the
telephone lines mid-morning losing the
weight of dew drops like purposelessness.
I don’t remember anything but the dream
belongs to you and I am walking by it.
Everything seems like a scaffold of extra
similes coming down after a poem has got
written. But what about the songs I am
hearing from end-to-end. The voice is
yours and the words sit beside me like a
ton of bricks from a bulldozer ran like
cruelty. I upturn one and then another.
What do I know about shattering but I
suspect I am famous for them. The
phonemes of my torn frock. The syllables
of a river once I saw die. It wanted to
leave behind something of it. If not bones
then an unclear dash with a waiting. Until
I asked to make choices I didn’t know I
cannot have, everything of everything. This
thought has come down to me here, time
dropping down its anchors. Soon the medium
that’s yours shall puncture a hole in me. Submerge
a sapling and envelope it with layers of shadows
after shadows. I feel a wet breath on my forehead.
I know I am nearing your good chest. And then
the world dialing numbers, dialed mine. A wrong
number disembarks me at the winter station. I
feel feverish. I feel unloved. I feel you far.



Purbasha Roy She is a writer from Jharkhand, India. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Denver Quarterly Review, SAND, Iron Horse Literary Review, The Margins as of late. Attained 2nd Position in 8th Singapore Poetry Contest. Best of the Net Nominee.<
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