submitted by Torsa Ghosal, Kolkata, India

Bruises embossed on her face, yet,

ancient pacific eyes

propel tumbling boats

at sunset through her bosom.

A look at her and one sigh… peace.

Peace, when I see her baking chapattis

Curtained by dancing smoke, sucking black coal

On winter mornings,

Peace, when I see her battered hands

And still know my grandma nourishes hope.

Lone divide between life and death

contained in her hour glass figure,

the jingle of bangles-anklets

since Himalayas

awakened, ticks

on clock tower. Touch

of her wet, warm palms and

one long word, everlastingly- … hush.

Silence, as I climb up to Eden secretly

Cradled in lullaby of her choking throat

Silence, that’s how my mother sees

Vernal dreams beyond her painful loads

Protected in the foliage of tropical forest,

plucking petals to deck my doll’s wedding gown

I painted the earth with my toes,

I would ride on the merry-go-round,

everyday and I knew well that was bliss.

Bliss, when we tasted berries from

Cloudland vineyards that were shielded from splinter

Bliss, as I thought the creepers of childhood would

Hold me in their fragile smiling grasps forever

Eventually I was, like my grandma and mom

Sucked into the roaring fires of clichéd roles,

Of fulfilling expectations, of being the one to care,

Enduring patiently-

Night after night, bitter fights under the quilt of happiness…

Where does this end? How will we ever transcend?

Hungry touches of monstrous silence…

Until on one such troubled night

A peaceful, blissful, silent whispering moment

Informed me, as I was staring at the blades of the fan,

Some girls of my home land have gathered

Shards of lives like ours and practiced to walk on them,

And by now must have reached beyond

Circular chapattis and songs of the flawed heaven…

submitted by Alex Rodrigues, Mumbai, India